


Small Talk

by likearecordplayer



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi, all he does is win win win no matter what
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 08:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 28,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28468065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likearecordplayer/pseuds/likearecordplayer
Summary: Palmetto State University days. New Year's Eve. "Someone" bets Andrew $20,000 that he can't make small talk with another human every single day for a year.He takes the bet.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 1332
Kudos: 1181





	1. December 31

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my experiment: can this fic last an entire year? 
> 
> One short update a day. 365 in a row. The occasional special visitor. Can I get my shit together enough to make it happen? Who's to say.
> 
> Posting here so as not to spam with update notifications.

There are two things in Andrew Minyard’s hands that make this party worth it: a bottle of whiskey and a glass into which to pour that whiskey.

The rest of it he could do without. 

Well, the enormous TV can stay. The plush leather couch. The pigs in a blanket piled on the tiny plate Neil is holding up, probably unconsciously at this point, so that Andrew can help himself to one when he feels like it. Neil can stay, too, if he’s going to keep holding the plate. Really, the entire cabin can stay as long as everyone but Neil gets the fuck out.

“How much longer?” Neil murmurs. 

“An hour ago,” Andrew answers pointedly. 

“Midnight,” Neil corrects, an amused lightness in his voice. “How much longer until midnight?”

“Look at your watch.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Phone.”

“I think it’s upstairs.”

“You’re the worst,” Andrew says flatly. Neil grins winsomely at him. “I hate you. Get my phone, it’s in my pocket.”

The grin turns wicked. Andrew lifts his arms so that Neil has space to work clever fingers into his tight, stubborn wedge of a pocket. Fingertips brush the delicate skin near the joint of his thigh; Andrew shifts his bottle out of the way so he can watch. 

“We could just leave,” Neil whispers. His mouth is close enough to Andrew’s ear that he can hear it over the music and the chatter of the others bouncing around the sheared log walls. “They wouldn’t notice.”

“They will notice,” Andrew counters. “We just don’t care that they will.”

Andrew faintly hears some loud noise and laughter in the background, but he doesn’t look up at the minor crashing sound that follows. Neil has managed to slide his hand halfway into Andrew’s pocket, further than he strictly needs to go to get a grip on the phone. 

Andrew has some thoughts about other things he can get a grip on. 

“Minyard,” a voice booms. It’s easily recognizable as Allison’s on-court voice, so Andrew doesn’t look up, even though he’s sure it’s directed at him and not Aaron.

“What?” Aaron calls, though he is obviously also sure it’s meant for Andrew.

“Not you,” Allison says. Andrew finally looks up to see that Allison has stepped up onto the coffee table. She’s pointing straight at Andrew. “You. Do you have a resolution?”

Neil’s fingers wiggle suggestively. Andrew looks down at them, back up at Allison, and says, “No.”

“I have one for you,” Allison says. “Be nicer.”

Next to him, Neil huffs a quiet laugh. His fingers still, but he leaves his hand hooked into Andrew’s pocket, the extra inches tightening Andrew’s jeans just enough that he can feel it.

“Pass,” Andrew says.

“What if,” Allison drawls, her expression smug, already pleased with herself, “I made it worth your while?”

Andrew raises his eyebrows, granting permission to keep talking. 

Her mouth curves dangerously in response; she lofts her champagne glass in the air, pauses until everyone’s attention is hanging on her barest inhale, and then says, “I bet you $20,000 that you can’t be nice for a whole year.”

“Define nice." 

“Talk to people,” Allison says after a pause. Her tone is more gloating than it is challenging. “Every day for a year, you make friendly conversation with someone. Not just us.”

“He makes friendly conversation with us?” Matt asks. 

“He does not,” Allison crows brightly. Her cup is still aloft, her expression knowing. “What do you say, Andrew? Just act like a person once a day, every day, for a year. It’s free money.”

Nicky’s laugh lets Andrew know he thinks Andrew is going to tell her to go fuck herself. Renee isn’t even looking at him—this moment of negotiation apparently less interesting than carefully assembling a skewer of fruits. Andrew lets his eyes flit across the group. They’re all waiting for him to deliver the punchline. He doesn’t care about her money. He doesn’t care that much about winning bets. He doesn’t let anyone tell him what to do. This is the spot where he says something dismissive and cutting or ignores her in favor of his whiskey. They know it’s coming. Something about that rubs him the wrong way.

When he looks to Neil, though, he sees something else. It shouldn't be unexpected: there is a fiendish glow somewhere deep in the blue of his eyes, a breathless look, a slight quirk of his mouth. It’s the face Neil makes when he’s thinking about doing something crazy. With Neil, that could be any fucking number of things. He might think they should set off fireworks from the roof. He might think they should all go jump in the near-freezing pool. He might think the two of them should make a run for it, grab the keys, peel out and go make out on the hood of the car in the fucking snow. 

It’s magnetic. Incredibly tempting. It always is.

“You’re on,” Andrew says loudly. Neil gives his fingers an approving wiggle. 

“What?” Allison breathes. Someone has turned down the music, Andrew realizes, at least enough that he can catch the airless quality to her voice. 

“Small talk,” Andrew confirms. “Every day. Twenty grand.”

Her face lights up like fireworks for five beautiful seconds. She never thought he’d say yes. It was a challenge and him taking it is a dream come true. Then something complicated passes across her expression, something closer to despair. It works both ways. She never thought he’d say yes. But he did. And he’s as stubborn as stone. He’s going to win this thing.

Andrew raises his glass and toasts her, tossing back his last swirl of whiskey before her outstretched hand moves even an inch towards her mouth.


	2. January 1

Andrew is not quite hungover in the morning, but he’s not quite hungunder, either. He’d been drinking but not _drinking_ the night before, so his body’s disapproval registers mostly in the pinch at his temples, the ache at the back of his skull, and a mouth so dry that Andrew’s pretty sure he’s going to need some kind of chemical solvent to detach his tongue from the roof of it. 

The bed is empty, but still warm, the fabric rumpled and soft where Neil had crawled out of it at some point. Recently, Andrew assumes, because he doesn’t know why he would have woken up otherwise. Jogging? No. No jogging. They’d gone north for this bullshit and the last thing any of them need is Neil breaking a leg because he can’t sit the fuck down for once in his cursed life. 

When he makes his way downstairs, though, Neil is still there. He’s pulled on thick socks, a pair of Vixens sweatpants he wears to annoy Aaron, and one of the German equivalents to a truck stop souvenir sweatshirt that Nicky had brought back for them after his last visit. 

Katelyn had given Neil the sweatpants. Andrew is pretty sure she did it to annoy Aaron, too. 

Neil looks up from where he’s mad-scientist-ing something that looks mostly potable at the complicated, fancy coffee machine. 

“You’re trying to poison us,” Andrew guesses. 

“Me?” Neil asks. Inquisitive. A little hurt. Total bullshit. 

“Don’t pull that with me,” Andrew says. “I don’t fall for it any more.” 

Neil’s smile is bright and ready. One of the pale round scars on his cheekbones creases into a heart, the way it always does. 

“So you don’t think I should add the maple syrup.” 

He jostles Neil out of the way. Coffee is too important for the Josten brand of chaos. 

To his credit, Neil goes easily, sliding over at the first firm bump of Andrew’s hip against his. 

“You slept well,” Neil says, watching as Andrew pointedly relocates all of Neil’s chosen ingredients to the other side of the counter, far out of contamination distance. “You talked a lot.” 

Andrew ignores him. 

“You kept saying Matt’s name. Should I be worried?” 

Andrew _resolutely_ ignores him. 

His reward is Neil’s quiet, morning laugh, not made dimmer in any way by the lower volume. 

Andrew has the coffee ready to go, the way he likes it, by the time he hears stirring in the rest of the house. Aaron wanders through, does a loop of the living room, glares heatedly at Andrew and Neil every time they come into his line of sight, and then shuffles angrily back off towards the bedrooms empty-handed. A shout deeper in the house suggests that someone has stepped into a shower to find it either already occupied or freezing cold. The first one to actually emerge properly is Allison. Her makeup is smeared and faded; one corner of her mouth still holds onto a vivid stretch of lipstick, but the eyeshadow is mostly just the memory of the smoky rose gold masterpiece it had been last night. 

“Give me death,” Allison moans. Her hair has fallen half out of its braided arrangement. She tips her whole head forward onto her arms. 

“We can give you coffee,” Neil offers. 

“I can give you coffee,” Andrew corrects. “Neil would give you some disgusting mixture of heated liquids.” 

“Death,” Allison begs pitifully. 

Neil hums thoughtfully. “If you insist, we can--” 

“Water,” Andrew interrupts. “Mercy killing is plan B.” 

“But, coffee,” Allison whimpers. “Caffeine.” 

“Is dehydrating.” Andrew points at Neil with the sugar spoon, firmly, until Neil heaves himself off the counter and digs through the fridge to find Allison a water bottle. “Your body wants the caffeine but it does not help. Food and water do.” 

To punctuate, Neil spins a squarish bottle of water across the island to her. 

Allison catches it with her athlete’s reflexes. “I don’t like it when you know stuff,” she says. “It’s creepy.” 

“It’s inhuman,” Neil agrees. “Brains. Talent. Good looks. Knife skills. Evasive driving techniques.” 

Andrew sends him a disapproving look. Allison says, “Gross.” 

“Was it worth the hangover?” Andrew asks. “If it was, stand by it and stop complaining. If it wasn’t, accept the consequences of your bad decisions and stop complaining.” 

“Mostly,” Allison admits. “I think I kissed half the Foxes.” 

“More than half,” Neil says helpfully. 

“I learned how to do that video game dance.” 

“Not really,” Andrew says. 

“I-- _oh_ ,” Allison stops, brightens, straightens, looks immediately like she regrets moving. “The bet.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew sees a feral smile start to spread across Neil’s face. 

“The bet,” Neil agrees. 

“You _took the bet_.” 

“I did,” Andrew confirms. 

“There’s no way you can do it.” 

“He’ll do it,” Neil says confidently. 

“It’s a whole year.” 

“It’s the easiest task in the world.” 

“Not for _Andrew_.” 

Neil’s smile sharpens. “I think you’ll be surprised.” 

Allison rounds on Andrew. “Neil doesn’t count.” 

“I know,” Andrew says. 

“You talk to him all the time.” 

“I know.” 

“Actually, none of the monsters count.” 

“Fine.” 

“Not even Aaron.” 

“Neil,” Andrew says, “grab the bacon and eggs.” 

“Don’t ignore me,” Allison protests. 

“I’m not.” 

The gush of cold air from the open fridge chills Andrew’s back. He shudders a little and holds his hand over his steaming mug of coffee for warmth. 

“ _Every day_ ,” Allison emphasizes. 

“It’s not a complicated concept,” Andrew says drily. “I get it. How do you like your eggs?” 

“Over easy. Crispy bacon. When are you going to start?” 

“I already did,” Andrew says. Allison’s eyes narrow, then widen, then close briefly. She mutters something under her breath, too quietly for Andrew to make it out. 

The look on Neil’s face, when Andrew turns to take it in, is remarkably similar to the one Matt wears when they watch movies with a lot of impressive explosions. 


	3. January 2

It takes thirty-seven minutes to reload everyone’s bags in the trunk of the Maserati. This is of note because it had taken no more than three minutes to load the trunk back in Palmetto. Everyone had simply shoved their shit into an available space and then they’d left. This time, no matter what Kevin does--no matter how helpful Aaron is, no matter how many cigarettes Andrew smokes while watching--there’s always a bag left on the ground. Eventually, about half an hour into the endeavor, Neil emerges from the house with a plastic bag of odds and ends he’d found on his last sweep-though, full of all the little things you usually forget unless you’ve spent your formative years moving from shithole to shithole with only what you can fit in a single duffel. 

Kevin looks at Neil, an unlikely savior in socks, slides, and sweats, and says, “Help.” 

Neil gets it on the first try. He’s done before Andrew can finish the cigarette he just started. There’s even an open space in which to gently nudge the bag of cords and single socks he’d kept looped over his wrist the whole time. 

Andrew fucking adores him. 

The efficiency, Andrew announces, earns Neil shotgun for the four hour ride back. He cranks up the volume on the My Chemical Romance CD already in the player to drown out any complaining and laces his fingers with Neil’s where they’re waiting, his palm up, on his thigh. 

They stop for gas and snacks about an hour in, once everyone’s grogginess has worn off and the tank is down to about a quarter full. Aaron and Neil stay in their seats, Nicky and Kevin head in to supervise each other’s snack selection, and Andrew leans against the car to fuel it. The metal is cold, chilling Andrew’s ass through the fabric of his jeans. He pulls the collar of his jacket up higher around his neck and hunches into it, slumping and watching the numbers on the meter fly with idle interest. 

Some very practical, fuel-efficient, late-model sedan pulls up on the other side of the pump. Andrew hears--but doesn’t see--the driver open and close doors, punch buttons, and pop the gas cap. He’d continue not giving a fuck, but the driver keeps peeking his head around the pumps, sneaking little looks. He’s in his early twenties, probably only a year or two older than Andrew, though of course, much taller. Light brown hair. Tan skin. A little scar that cuts through his upper lip. Red polo shirt, tan slacks. Probably on his way to work. 

It’s the car, Andrew assumes. He’s gotta be looking at the car. 

“Hey,” Andrew says, the next time the guy pokes his head around for a stolen look. 

The guy startles. “Oh. Hey, sorry.” 

“I’m not a jealous man,” Andrew says drily. “You can look.” 

The guy laughs awkwardly, but he still steps up onto the pump’s platform and lets himself get an eyeful. “She’s gorgeous,” he says ruefully. 

“Thanks,” Andrew says. He levers himself off the side of the car and turns so that he, too, can look at it. 

“2005?” the guy asks. 

“2006,” Andrew corrects. 

He watches as the guy’s gaze caresses the car lovingly, then finally turns to assess its owner. Andrew doesn’t look like much, he’s aware. He’s short. Average looking. He hadn’t bothered shaving this morning--or last morning, for that matter. His boots are battered, his faded black jeans have pen marks around the knees from when he gets bored in class. He looks, he’s sure, much more like he stole this car than like he owns it. 

“You can ask,” Andrew says, amused. 

The guy laughs. “Sorry, I just. You look my age.” 

“Turned twenty-one in November,” Andrew confirms. 

“So you’re either really rich or really lucky.” 

“Or really good at grand theft auto,” Andrew offers. 

“Or that,” the guy laughs. 

“Really lucky,” Andrew says. “My boyfriend bought it for me.” 

This probably doesn’t clarify much. Andrew doesn’t look like the kind of guy whose boyfriend would buy him this wet dream of a car. Helpfully, Andrew gestures towards the open driver’s side door. The guy ducks his head in, does a quick double-take, and steps back. 

Neil, messy hair, facial scars, mismatched socks braced against the dashboard, probably doesn’t clarify much either. Andrew, in response to the guy’s next darted look his way, just shrugs. 

“That’s my mom’s old Camry,” the guy says, nodding back over his shoulder at the silver sedan. “But someday.” He sounds wistful. Unconvinced. The self-aware, pragmatic dreamer. This six-figure car is an impossibility for most people. 

“Someday,” Andrew repeats firmly. “Life is fucking weird. The craziest shit can fall into your lap.” 

They stand there, silent, admiring the fluid lines of the car, of the dream it represents, of the sleek, shining proof of how generous the world can be sometimes, until the sharp click of the nozzle turning itself off breaks the spell. Andrew squeezes the handle to make sure it’s done pumping, pulls it out gently, tucks it back into its holder. 

“Thanks,” the guy says again. “Think of me if your boyfriend wants someone new to buy a car for.” 

“Absolutely not,” Andrew says amicably. 

The guy laughs and then is gone, putting away his own hose and nozzle, screwing his own gas cap on, taking off because, unlike Andrew, he’s not still fucking waiting for Nicky and Kevin to get back with the food. 

Andrew slides into the driver’s seat again, cupping his hand over Neil’s bent knee and watching as he writes a six into one of his sudoku squares in pen, frowns, and scribbles it out. There’s a rustle in the backseat and then Aaron is closer, leaning forward between the seats, the coffee on his breath a little acrid. 

“You’re really doing it,” Aaron says. “The bet.” 

“I said I would.” 

“Yeah, but--” 

But nothing, apparently. Aaron lets the pause stretch, pulled thin until it evaporates more than snaps. Neil taps the tip of his pen against a square questioningly--six goes here; Andrew shakes his head and nudges it up and over one with his fingertip. Six goes there. 


	4. January 3

Aaron wanders past the living room for at least the third time that day, opens the front door, pokes his head outside, says, “It’s not here,” into his phone, and then wanders back towards the bedrooms. 

“What do you think it is?” Neil asks. His bowl of fruit is balanced carefully on his crossed ankles. He selects a berry, offers it to Andrew, then pops it easily into his mouth when Andrew shakes his head no. 

“Dildo.” 

Neil snorts a laugh. Another berry goes into his mouth, leaving a smear of whipped cream on the peaks of his upper lip. 

“Pom poms?” Neil offers. 

“The new Halo.” 

“Nunchucks.” Neil flails his arms in a way that may, if you really squint, be a vague suggestion of--no, it looks nothing like it, never mind. 

“Why did you want me to do it?” Andrew asks abruptly. "The bet." 

“Twenty grand,” Neil says easily. 

“What about it?” 

“It’s a lot of money.” 

“You think I care about money?” 

“I think medical school is expensive.” 

“You--” Andrew starts, then blanks. “What are you talking about.” 

“You’re probably going to go pro and it won’t be a problem.” 

“But?” Andrew prompts. 

“But injuries happen. I have to go pro but most of my salary will go to the Moriyamas. If you got hurt and couldn’t--it might be tough on 30% of a salary.” 

“Might be tough.” 

“Tuition, his housing, our expenses. I have some money left, but maybe not enough for everything for years.” 

Andrew doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t. Say anything. 

“It probably won’t matter,” Neil says, shrugging. “You won’t get hurt. You’ll go pro. Aaron’s tuition will be pocket change for you. But you should always have a plan B.” 

This time, when Neil offers him a grape, Andrew takes it. He bites off half and talks around it when he says, “I’m a little disappointed.” 

“Well,” Neil says, transforming his expression into something Andrew thinks is supposed to be innocent. It’s massively out of place on a face irrevocably marked with its loss. “Maybe I also like seeing you be nice.” 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. 

“Or maybe I like seeing you win,” Neil confesses. 

This time, when Andrew hears Aaron’s footsteps pacing down the hallway, he gets up and ambushes him just a few steps into the living room; he plucks the flip phone from Aaron’s unsuspecting hand and presses it to his ear instead, spinning away from Aaron’s belated, grasping horror. 

“Hello,” Andrew says. 

At the other end, Katelyn’s voice is tinny when comes through. “Um. Hi?” 

“Katelyn,” Andrew says. 

“Andrew?” she answers hesitantly. 

“What is Aaron waiting on?” 

“Oh. Um.” 

He can hear the blush that must be covering her face. Aaron grabs for the phone again, but Andrew ducks, easily avoiding his grab, and snags a steak knife from the block on the kitchen counter as he retreats to a more defensible position. 

“I won’t tell him if it’s a secret,” Andrew promises. 

“It’s dumb,” she mumbles. 

“He’s dumb.” 

“ _Hey_ ,” Aaron protests. He takes half a step forward, then backs off when Andrew waves the knife at him. 

“It’s just a mix CD. And a little stuffed fox.” 

Andrew senses there’s more to it, so he waits. 

“Inalittledoctoroutfit.” 

“Incredibly lame,” Andrew says. “He’ll probably love it.” 

Her laugh is awkward. Tense. Definitely a little paranoid about Andrew’s murderous intent. 

“How was your Christmas?” Andrew asks. 

“Oh,” she says. “Good. Fine. Florida.” Another awkward laugh. 

This, Andrew realizes, is not going particularly well. Maybe this small talk thing is going to be harder than he’d realized. He pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at it, like maybe there are instructions written on the screen. Aaron makes another desperate swipe for it, getting close enough that Andrew has to pull the knife close to his chest to avoid cutting him with it. Over Aaron’s shoulder, Andrew sees that Neil has popped up onto his knees on the couch, watching them with avid fascination as he eats berry after berry. 

Andrew puts the phone back to his ear. “I did not get you a gift. Consider this a late one. When Aaron was sixteen, he made it his mission in life to learn to sing _Fallin_ , the Alicia Keys song. He sang it over and over again in the shower every day, twice a day. He was either very dirty or very horny all the time.” 

“Andrew,” Aaron hisses venomously. 

“He got pretty good,” Andrew says. “Add it to your sex mix and see what happens.” 

This time, Katelyn’s laugh is a little looser. A little more real. 

“I keep on falling,” she sings quietly. 

“In and out of love,” Andrew finishes, mimicking the riffs in a monotone. “Here’s Aaron.” 

He hands the phone back to his crimson twin, slots the steak knife back into the block, and returns to the couch, where he flops with his head in Neil’s lap and opens his mouth wide to receive a grape. 


	5. January 4

Andrew gets to the door after the second round of knocks and bell-ringings, because he comes from the back of the house, because Neil and Aaron and Kevin are playing some kind of idiotic game where they try not to be the first one to break and go get the food. Andrew refuses on principle to play it. 

The delivery guy doesn’t bother to disguise his impatience. He takes the cash and swaps it with the receipt, then transfers the stack of pizzas into both hands and lofts them for Andrew to take. Behind him, only a faintly glowing strip of aubergine holds off the darkness. Andrew puts his hands in his pockets and says, “Nice night.” 

“What?” 

Andrew nods towards the sunset. “It looks like a nice night.” 

The delivery guy meets these offerings with a look of mingled disgust and confusion. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“Pretty sunset.” 

“Are you okay, man?” 

“Yep,” Andrew says. “Good. How about you?” 

The disgust on the guy’s face pushes the confusion well past the horizon. In a tone of voice that would transform any words into, ‘ _hey, go fuck yourself_ ,’ he says, “Doin' real good, man.” 

Andrew reaches for the pizza, shifting the weight of the stacked boxes into his own arms. He says, “Nice to meet you.” 

“You too,” the guy lies aggressively. His trip back to his car is more of a jog than a walk. 

It still counts. Allison didn’t say anyone had to actually enjoy the small talk. 


	6. January 5

Andrew transfers the last of the bottles from his cart to the counter, twisting it so that the label faces the cashier the way the rest do. He has eleven twenty-dollar bills in his pocket, and he thinks this veritable petting zoo of liquor is going to take all of them. 

One of the vodka bottles isn’t quite straight. Andrew turns it three degrees and then, satisfied, looks up at the cashier. Who is staring at him. 

“Happy New Year,” Andrew offers. 

The cashier is a wizened man, aged somewhere between 100 years and pack-a-day 30 year old smoker. His name tag says “Kim.” 

“Young man,” Kim says, in a gravelly voice that doesn’t clarify his actual age at all. “I’m going to need to see some identification.” 

The license Andrew hands over is real. Legitimate. He double checks to make sure it’s not one of his forsaken fakes. Kim takes it, peers at it through his glasses, pushes his glasses down to peer at it over the rim, and then repeats the procedure with Andrew. 

“I’m short,” Andrew says. “Short people drink too.” 

Kim goes through the glasses process again, except this time he holds them in his hand and wiggles them a little. 

“I have a nephew,” Kim says slowly. “He's little, like you. He is a homosexual.” 

This is a great opportunity to completely ignore the cashier. Instead, Andrew grabs a handful of candy from the eye-level impulse buy area and tosses them onto the counter as a reward for what he’s about to do. He meets the old man’s rheumy, gray eyes and says, “I am too.” 

“A homosexual?” Kim asks. He still hasn’t scanned a single bottle. 

“Yes. My twin is not. There’s probably not a correlation.” 

“Well how about that,” Kim marvels. He finally picks up a bottle--one of Kevin’s favorite vodkas--and scans it. “Are you identical?” 

“Very. It’s a curse.” 

The next bottle beeps as Kim geriatrically moves it over the scanner. He says, “My nephew, he got married. Real big shindig. Too much classical music for my taste, but the food was damn good. You got a fella?” 

“Yeah.” 

“He any bigger than you are?” 

Andrew thinks about the scant inches Neil has on him, just enough that Andrew has to pull him down when he wants to kiss him. He’d been furious the first time Allison had buzzed down the hair at the nape of Neil’s neck. The strands are soft, thick, interspersed with finer curls that grow back first and stay that way, teasing the tender skin of Andrew’s hand when he winds his fingers into all that auburn and puts Neil where he wants him. 

“Not much,” Andrew says. 

“You’re probably too young to get married,” Kim muses. The scanner beeps again and again, albeit with long gaps between. 

“I will never get married,” Andrew says. 

Kim chortles. “Did it five times myself.” 

“Is that an endorsement?” 

“You think I would’ve kept doing it otherwise?” 

“I suppose not.” 

“Food was never as good as at the gay one, though. Maybe I ought to go to more of those.” 

“Sure,” Andrew agrees. “Won’t be mine.” 

“Ah, we’ll see,” Kim drawls. “You’re young yet. You’ll meet the right guy.” 

“I already met him,” Andrew says. “But he doesn’t trust the government.” 

“Well,” Kim says with something that sounds like delight, if you tied delight to a pickup truck and dragged it over a bunch of rocks. “I guess you found a good one.” 


	7. January 6

“He’s impossible to shop for,” Nicky complains. “He has no fashion sense. He cannot be spoiled. He needs a hobby.” 

“He has a hobby,” Kevin says. 

“He does?” 

Kevin says, “Andrew,” at the precise moment Andrew says, “Exy.” 

They eye each other. 

“Neither of those are _hobbies_ ,” Nicky says, exasperated. “I already blew it once. I had Erik send me a huge box full of German treats. The shipping was forty bucks. And then I remembered he doesn’t like sweets.” 

Kevin says, “I’m getting him exy stuff.” 

“Kevin is going to autograph last year’s jersey for him,” Andrew says drily. “It willl be worth a fortune someday.” 

“His birthday is in _two weeks_ ,” Nicky says. 

“You know he doesn’t care.” 

“Of course _he_ doesn’t care,” Nicky answers, exasperated. “He’s _Neil_. He doesn’t ‘care’ if he’s on fire or not. That’s why he has us.” 

“To buy him shit he does not actually want?” Andrew asks. 

He expects Nicky to continue the bit--the one Andrew is complicit in by virtue of his presence, the one where Nicky plays the bemused human escorting two aliens around and teaching them human behavior--but he doesn’t. He turns on them instead, fast enough that Andrew takes an instinctive step backwards. One stern finger comes up and points from Kevin to Andrew, back and forth, tracing the same steep hill up and down as he trains it on their faces. 

“The two of you should know better,” Nicky says. “Giving people birthday gifts is not about fulfilling some practical need in their lives that they haven’t gotten around to. It’s about showing the person that they are _loved_ because the people who love them have spent--not even _money_ , they’ve spent time and _thought_ about making them happy. Neither one of you should be taking that for granted. So, no, Kevin Day, you are not giving Neil a plastic bag full of exy supplies. And no, Andrew Minyard, you are not handing him a cigarette and telling him that birthdays are a capitalist construct. The both of you are going to think about what would _mean something_ to Neil and then you are going to buy it. Or make it. I don’t care if it’s a book of fucking non-exy quality time coupons, _Kevin_ , just make it happen.” 

The pointed finger makes one last trip between them. Nicky turns on his heel and stalks off, chin high, every inch of him determined. It’s pretty fucking impressive. 

Andrew looks from Kevin’s astonished, guilty expression to the forgotten electronics salesperson who’d been showing them the store’s selection of runner-friendly mp3 players. She looks as though she’s just seen a car crash. 

“I won’t apologize for him,” Andrew says. 

“He was magnificent,” she breathes. “Is he single.” 

“No. Nor straight.” 

She sighs. Disappointed. The tragedy of all the good men being either gay or taken. He, himself, is both, but he's pretty sure he doesn’t qualify as one of the good ones. 

“He is,” Andrew says, jerking his chin towards Kevin, who promptly draws himself into the stiffest of postures and acquires a look of intensely superior disinterest. 

“Oh,” the girl says. Faced with six feet of college athlete, Andrew was expecting her to look--well, frankly, a little more interested. 

“This is Kevin,” Andrew says. “He’s a jock.” 

“We’re on the same team,” Kevin says cooly. 

“And he is tall,” Andrew continues. “If you like that sort of thing.” 

“Oookay,” she says. Andrew’s a little surprised when she steps closer to him, leaving them side-by-side to study Kevin. A slowly flushing Kevin. A Kevin whose coloring is getting deeper and deeper. It's the Irish in him. The blood gives him away no matter how good his poker face is. “Was your cousin right about the bag of sports stuff, though?” 

“Yes. Though they are both obsessive jocks.” 

“The _same team_ ,” Kevin repeats. 

“I need someone actually considerate, though. Someone who really thinks about me,” she says. “No offense, but neither of you sounded-- you know.” 

Andrew knows. He looks at her; she’s obviously kidding, but maybe not entirely kidding. She doesn’t know if this is just a joke or not. He could really be trying to set her up, or he could be fucking with Kevin. She doesn’t know him at all. She doesn’t have the same expectations Allison does. To her, it is entirely possible Andrew is being sincere. Maybe it’s because Allison thinks he’s incapable of it that he decides to say what he does. Maybe it’s because Neil believes he is. Maybe both. He looks at Kevin. 

“He is,” Andrew says. “If you know what to look for.” 

The borders of the deepening color on Kevin’s neck ease ups towards his cheeks. Kevin isn't shy, but it's not as though he’s had many opportunities to do this, to meet people, to express possible mutual interest. Andrew’s own experience is sparse at best when it comes to anything other than sussing out a hookup. Andrew pats his pockets, looking for paper or a pen, but he comes up empty. He only finds his wallet, a mostly empty pack of cigarettes, and a couple of loose pennies. He taps the two remaining cigarettes out of the carton and slides them carefully into his pocket, then looks up and touches his chest, echoing the spot where a sharpie hangs off of her lanyard. When she hands it over, he writes Kevin’s phone number in tidy, blocky numbers in a bit of white space on the pack. He caps the sharpie, stacks it on the pack, offers her both items together. 

Kevin’s ears look hot enough to shimmer the air around them. 

“Kevin is great,” Andrew tells her. “We’re lucky to have him.” 

She takes the pack, folding her fingers to hold the pen close. Andrew has no idea if he’s just set Kevin up for some awkward sexting or if he’s introduced him to his future wife. Probably not that last one. Kevin has about a one-in-a-million chance of finding a good fit at random. Andrew has a feeling that he will need someone as special order as Andrew did. 

It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Kevin is more than capable of opting out at a nuclear level. 

“I already have Neil’s gift,” Andrew tells Kevin. “Find me when you’re done.” 


	8. January 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was. Real bad. Thank fuck we’re in the mid-2000s here.

The woman standing next to Andrew at the bar keeps moving her mouth. Sometimes he sees her teeth, sometimes he doesn’t. Her face is painted purple, then red, then blue by the flashing lights on the dance floor.

“Totally,” Andrew says when her mouth stops moving.

She leans in a bit and taps her ear. Andrew knows very well that she’s been closer to shouting than talking and he hasn’t heard a single word of it, so he says, “Guacamole.”

Her mouth moves some more. It stays open for longer than a word. The lights flash blue on her exposed (and very shiny) teeth. 

“Yeah,” Andrew says, nodding. “Sean is inhibited by Gus in most of their investigations.”

When her mouth moves again, he finally catches a word--”dance.”

“I do not,” Andrew says. He can’t really hear his voice over the pounding of the bass against his eardrums. “I don’t like being grabbed.”

This time, whatever she’s saying turns into lifting her hand in a sort of lightbulb-removing gesture.

“It is a good song,” Andrew agrees. “Still no.”

She makes more mouth shapes, punctuating them with a nod towards the floor. 

“No,” Andrew says. He shakes his head to be sure she gets it. And then, because he’s a man of his word, he adds, “Thank you.”


	9. January 8

“I don’t _want_ to wait for Netflix,” Nicky says for approximately the fifteenth time that day. 

“Well _I_ don’t want to go to Blockbuster,” Aaron shoots back. 

“Listen, Aaron. None of you jerks would go see it with me in theaters, but you will not prevent me from watching it in my own home.” 

Andrew, safely propped up against the arch between the kitchen and the living room, says nothing. He somehow hears the shuffle of socked feet over Aaron’s retort, and then Neil is carefully propping his chin on Andrew’s shoulder. It’s the only point of contact but it’s soothing nonetheless. 

“What are they talking about?” Neil murmurs. 

“ _The Lake House,_ ” Andrew answers. “Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves reunite over love letters or something.” 

Neil’s chin is warm through Andrew’s shirt. His breath tickles Andrew’s ear. He says, “Have you talked to anyone today?” 

“Nope,” Andrew says. He leans backwards, trusting the solidity of Neil’s chest to keep him upright. 

It does. Warmth seeps into Andrew’s back and bones. 

Neil kisses the side of his head with a quick press of lips, and then brings his hands up to cover Andrew’s ears before producing a piercing whistle. 

“Hey,” Neil says once the others turn to him. “Andrew and I are going to Blockbuster.” 

The look of betrayal on Aaron’s face is sharp 

“I want to get _The Corpse Bride_ ,” Andrew says, shrugging. “You don’t have to come.” 

Aaron comes, because of course he does. It’s very difficult to make sure people know you’re displeased if you’re not around to remind them. The drive is short, anyway, and they’re pulling into the parking lot with its cracked pavement within a few minutes. The lights at the torn end of the Blockbuster logo flicker intermittently. The carpet inside is worn down, sticky with soda or static electricity. It had been hard to imagine, before the last few years, that this place wouldn’t be around forever. Now, it’s forgotten and seedy. 

Nicky heads straight to romance, Aaron to science fiction, and Neil follows Andrew easily to animation. They’ll be back on campus in a few days, starting a new semester; the almost-end and not-quite beginning of this period, the liminal state, the needing to pack but not wanting to do it too soon, it’s all been making Andrew feel itchy. Restless. 

He will not lose this bet eight days in, though, so here he is. At this sad video rental store with weary shoppers and beleaguered employees. The shelves of DVDs rise up above and around him, one rectangle after another of movie covers warped by the aging plastic of the boxes they’ve been shoved into looming forebodingly. None of them look like _The Corpse Bride._

Neil, still a step behind him, says, “Excuse me,” but it’s too loud to be directed at Andrew. When he turns, he sees that Neil is waving over an employee--a young woman with pink hair and a studded belt. 

“Hi,” Neil says when she gets closer. “We’re looking for…” 

At this, he turns to Andrew quizzically, as though he isn’t perfectly aware of what they’re looking for. Andrew feels a tiny burst of gratitude. He scowls quickly at Neil and says, “ _The Corpse Bride_.” 

“Oh, awesome,” the girl says. Her name tag says Haleigh. “Tim Burton. Nice.” 

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Andrew offers. 

“Last year was crazy,” Neil adds. 

Understatement. Last year was a fucking nightmare festival of chaos and trauma and drugs. Andrew thinks they could count the number of new movies the team saw cumulatively on one hand. 

“It’s great,” Haleigh enthuses. “Did you ever see _Edward Scissorhands_? I think we have that, too.” 

Andrew nods. 

“I haven’t,” Neil says. 

Haleigh looks appalled. Andrew isn’t surprised, but he could get on board with ‘appalling’ to describe Neil’s general lack of media knowledge. It’s not like he’d had friends to go see movies with. It’s not like they’d carried a TV and DVD player around with them from town to town, shitty apartment to abandoned house. 

It’s not like Mary would have put a high priority on taking Neil to the movies. He can’t imagine that she’d like the idea of sitting in a dark, crowded room for hours. She would never have wanted Neil getting comfortable being distracted. 

“He hasn’t seen anything,” Andrew says slowly. “Maybe he should.” 

“Oh, he _definitely_ should,” Haleigh says, delighted. So delighted that if Andrew didn’t know better, he’d think she got paid on commission. 

Neil says, “Uh oh,” with a wry smile that gives away his amusement. 

“So,” Haleigh continues. “ _The Corpse Bride_. What about _The Royal Tenenbaums? Napoleon Dynamite? Moulin Rouge? Memento?_ ” 

“ _The Truman Show,_ ” Andrew suggests, following her as she starts moving purposefully down the aisles. “ _Fight Club_.” 

He looks back once she’s stacked a couple of DVD boxes in his hands to find that Neil has wandered away towards snacks. Andrew is sure he sees at least one giant bag of popcorn cradled in Neil’s arms. 

By the time Andrew meets Neil, Nicky, and Aaron at the cash register, he has eight DVDs stacked in his hands and a way to keep himself within his skin for the next two days. And maybe, if they drag his laptop to their bedroom, a way to keep himself inside of Neil’s skin, too. 

“That’s a lot of movies,” Neil says, grinning. He has five fucking giant bags of popcorn held in a wide hug. There’s a stack of boxed candy sloppily assembled on the counter next to him. 

“Did you get everyone their own bag?” Aaron asks; his voice is balancing somewhere between disgust and hope. 

“Oh,” Neil says, looking down at the crimped tops of the bags. “Yeah, I guess we can do it that way.” 


	10. January 9 (by lemonicee)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest-written by my roommate, [@lemonicee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonicee/), who once wrote me the [Minyard-Josten Rivalry fic of my heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813745).

Andrew hates running. He’s a goalie for a reason. If he’s in that much of a hurry to get somewhere, he can drive. 

Unfortunately, Andrew’s boyfriend fucking _loves_ to run. Some days, it’s Andrew’s least favorite thing about him. Other days, there are much worse things. Not today, though. Today running is topping his list of terrible things about Neil. 

“Come on,” Neil says. He’s standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, trying to coax Andrew into joining him. If Neil wasn’t wearing the tiniest shorts Andrew has ever seen, he wouldn’t even be entertaining the idea. But Neil is. So Andrew is. He has put on the jogging pants and the shoes but _fuck_ he does not want to run. 

He tries to channel his feelings into a glare. “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” 

“You say that now,” Neil responds. “But would you rather get on a court with Kevin after sitting on the couch eating ice cream for a month?” 

“Fuck off,” Andrew snaps. Neil’s right, though, and they both know it. He grudgingly makes his way down the driveway to join Neil by the mailbox. 

“Okay,” Neil says. “We’re going to start with stretches.” 

Andrew nods. “Cool. I’ll watch.” 

Neil opens his mouth, but seems to think better of whatever he was about to say and closes it. Good. 

Instead, Neil starts stretching, and Andrew does exactly what he said he would do. Watch. Well, also he thinks about how those very thin shorts will look in a few miles when Neil is starting to sweat. 

He’s so engrossed in watching Neil’s thighs flex that he doesn’t even realize someone else is there until something cold and wet hits him behind his knee. He goes on high alert immediately, turning on his heel and reaching for the knife under one arm band. 

The space behind him is empty. 

He looks down and locks eyes with a two foot-tall ball of white fluff with a tail, ears, and a little pink tongue hanging out of its mouth. It bumps its nose into his leg again and pants up at him. 

Andrew kneels down and scratches the dog behind the ears, looking for a collar. There isn’t one. “Where’d you come from?” he asks it. 

In response, it jumps up and licks his nose. 

Neil laughs behind him, and Andrew is mid-flipping him off when a little girl comes flying around the corner of their house, a leash with an empty collar attached dragging behind her. 

“You found him!” she screeches, throwing herself the final two feet and scooping up the dog. 

Andrew blinks at her. She’s maybe nine. What the fuck do you say to a nine year-old? He doesn’t know, so he addresses the dog instead. “Looks like your prison break failed, dude.” 

“He got away,” she says, breathless. “I thought he was going to _die_.” 

“You can’t do that,” Andrew tells the dog. “There are dangerous people out here.” 

Neil taps Andrew on the shoulder and leans in close enough that Andrew can feel the warmth of Neil’s breath on his neck. “The dog doesn’t count,” he whispers. “You have to talk to the kid.” 

Andrew sighs. Neil is right. Again. For the second time in less than half an hour. Andrew doesn’t love it. 

Still, though. He looks at the little girl and searches his brain futility for a good ten seconds. Finally, his eyes catch on the collar she’s trying to wrangle back onto the dog’s neck. 

“What’s his name?” he asks, irrationally proud of himself for figuring something out. 

“Kevin,” the girl says cheerfully. “He’s my favorite Jonas.” 

Andrew almost laughs. Almost. He hears Neil’s choked off snort behind him and has to bite his own lip. “That’s perfect,” he tells the girl. “He looks exactly like every Kevin that I’ve ever met.” 

Before the girl can say anything else and ruin this amazing moment, he turns around and starts jogging. He hears Neil talking to the girl behind him and picks up speed, but Neil still catches up with him infuriatingly fast. 


	11. January 10

Everyone spills out of the car after the two-hour ride back to campus. Kevin unfolds himself from the passenger seat; Neil and Aaron climb out either side of the back, leaving Nicky to maneuver himself across the bench. Nicky is the tallest of the backseat dwellers on this occasion, and while he’d usually get one of the outside seats, none of them want to put Neil and Aaron half on top of each other for two hours. They’re warming to each other slowly, but they both still get their hackles up at the drop of a hat on Andrew’s behalf. Andrew supposes one day they’ll either wage a death match or bond over their misplaced protectiveness. Maybe both. 

Much of campus is still quiet, but the athletes’ dorms are bustling with activity as people move back in, eager to resume training at the University’s facilities. Andrew spots three people carrying massive plastic-sheathed cubes of new bedding. There are shiny new sneakers everywhere, at least one TV being carried in by two of the basketball guys, and a gleaming yellow VW bug that stands out as a newcomer to the lot. 

Nothing any of them had gotten each other required more than a little cleared space in their bags. Andrew slings his over his shoulder and starts walking in; the trunk slams shut when he’s about twenty paces away. He doesn’t look back, but he recognizes the sounds of the light jog and the long strides behind him and isn’t surprised when Neil and Kevin catch up with him. 

Kevin clears his throat. 

“No,” Andrew says. 

“Andrew. Be reasonable.” 

“I am reasonable. You’re an addict.” 

“Just a _little_ practice,” Kevin coaxes. “We’ve been off the court for weeks.” 

Yeah, Andrew knows. He says nothing. 

“Neil,” Kevin pleads, “back me up here.” 

“He doesn’t have to come,” Neil says. 

They all consider this briefly. 

“You don’t have to practice,” Neil amends, directing this at Andrew. “Bring a book. We’ll drag one of the chairs out from the lounge.” 

Before Andrew can tell them how pathetic and obsessed they are, Neil’s name booms across the lot, loud enough to shake Andrew’s teeth. 

Boyd. 

Sure enough, when they look up to see the source of the call, it’s Matt, loping towards them from the side-lot dorm exit. He immediately hefts Neil into a bear hug upon reaching them, making Neil ‘oof’ with the pressure. 

“Are we practicing tonight?” Matt asks, grinning. 

Kevin’s sidelong look of triumph has quite a bit of edge to it. Andrew is proud of him, in an idle sort of way. 

“We are,” Kevin says firmly. “Anyone who wants to come.” 

“What about you, mo--inyard?” Matt asks. “You want to come gloat about how rusty the rest of us are?” 

“I do not gloat.” 

“Judge?” 

“It’s hardly worth it.” 

Matt finally puts Neil down, leaving him to smooth down the front of his hoodie and readjust the duffle he’d still been holding. Andrew watches his scarred fingers work and sighs, turning back to their most enormous of jocks. 

“I’ll come,” Andrew says. It tastes bad. “I will play. I will not run laps. Is that a new sweater?” 

Blinking, Matt looks from Andrew down to his own chest. The sweater is a deep red, thickly knit, with an asymmetrical buttoned neckline. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “It was delivered while we were on break.” 

“Good color,” Andrew observes. “Better than orange.” 

Next to Matt, Neil rolls his eyes dramatically. 

“Thanks?” Matt says. He seems confused, but then he brightens, his grin breaking onto his face again. “Is this the thing? Are we doing the thing?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hell yes. Well, Andrew, thank you for asking. My aunt Patricia got this for me on her trip to New Zealand last year. Apparently they have world class wool.” 

“And hobbits,” Andrew adds. 

“ _Hobbits_ ,” Matt agrees, stabbing a finger in Andrew’s direction. “Neil should see hobbits.” 

“Should I?” Neil asks skeptically. 

“I showed him _Shrek_ ,” Andrew says. “And the sequel.” 

Neil grins. “I’m Fiona. Andrew is Shrek.” 

“Oh shit,” Matt breathes. “Does that make Kevin Donkey?” 

“It does not,” Kevin says stiffly. 

“Yes it does,” Andrew counters. “I was living a peaceful life and then you showed up and started braying.” 

“Wait, who am I?” Matt asks. 

“A tree.” 

“Minyard,” Matt protests. “I’m at least one of the mice.” 

“Big tree,” Andrew says. “Very dense.” 

“Does this even count as friendly?” Matt muses. 

Neil says, “Yes.” 

Andrew shrugs. 

“I’m the dragon,” Matt says, like an announcement. “I’ll guard Neil in his tower.” 

“Don’t need a guard,” Neil says. 

“You need an army,” Andrew says. “And a babysitter.” 

“And a GPS chip,” Matt adds. 

“And at least two hours of practice tonight,” Kevin says quickly. “Can we go inside now? I’m losing feeling in my fingers.” 


	12. January 11

Being back on campus makes achieving his daily torture much easier. You can’t swing a cat without hitting someone who’s more than happy to babble about themselves indefinitely. Practice will make it easier than that, even--Allison had said the monsters didn’t count, but the rest of the team is fair game. 

All Andrew really has to do, it turns out, is leave the dorm’s door open while he sits in the living room and plays video games; when a familiar form comes into view, he purses his lips and whistles loudly until the figure stops and ducks its head into the doorway.  


“I know you did not just whistle for me,” Allison says. 

“I wasn’t going to chase you.” 

She considers, head tilted. “I’ll allow it this once. What do you want?” 

“What is your favorite movie?” 

“ _Clueless_. Why?” 

“Alicia Silverstone,” Andrew says, trying to remember the details of the movie. “Paul Rudd. Brittany Murphy. _Emma_.” 

“‘Searching for a boy in high school is as useless as searching for meaning in a Pauly Shore movie,’” Allison quotes. 

“How long will it take for Pauly Shore to disappear?” Andrew muses. 

“Too long,” Allison says grimly. “It’s already been too long.” 

“ _Clueless_ is a good choice.” 

“I bet yours is _Fight Club_ ,” Allison teases. “Would Aaron be the Edward Norton to your Brad Pitt?” 

“Ask him,” Andrew suggests. 

She laughs delightedly. “God no. Anyway, the first rule of Fight Club is--” 

“You don’t talk about Fight Club,” Andrew finishes. “But that isn’t my favorite.” 

“What is it?” 

“That’s a very personal question.” 

“You asshole,” Allison says. There’s no heat in it, though. She may not be his biggest fan, but Neil being around has been smoothing things over a little. This year will probably change it. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. “What _do_ you want?” 

Drily, Andrew answers, “Just to chat.” 

“I can’t believe you’re going through with this.” 

Andrew shrugs. “It isn’t hard.” 

“ _American Psycho_?” 

“Nope.” 

“ _Memento_?” 

“No.” 

“ _Coyote Ugly_?” 

“Yes.” 

“Really?” 

“Yep,” Andrew says. He turns one eye back to his video game. “You got it.” 

“You’re lying,” she accuses. 

“I love it.” 

“ _Such_ a dick.” 

“It’s been nice talking to you,” Andrew says dismissively. “Have a good day.” 

He manages to keep his mouth in a flat line when she raises the middle fingers on both hands and waves them around enthusiastically as she backs out the door. 


	13. January 12

Andrew can’t put it off anymore. His lunch has barely settled in his stomach before he’s dragged to the stadium to meet at least ¾ of the fucking team, now featuring a handful of new freshmen who are somehow worse than Neil had ever been. On the whole, Andrew would rather deal with the mafia than with Jack. Adding Sheena is like someone turning up with a chalkboard to rake their nails over it when you’re already being beaten to death. 

The two of them are skipping this optional Friday free-for-all, at least. For his part, Andrew leans against the plexi by the home bench, watching as Kevin tries to defend their goal against Neil. Even Aaron is getting into it, throwing his all into dogging Neil’s heels, failing, and going at it even harder the next time. Over and over, Neil evades Aaron and sneaks through Kevin’s many blind spots to hit goal after goal. 

“He’s not great,” Wymack says, stepping up beside Andrew. 

“No,” Andrew agrees. “He is not.” 

“What if he was trained? In the goal?” 

Andrew makes a considering noise. “He could be passable. He is too focused on where he thinks Neil should aim.” 

“But that’s not how Neil plays,” Wymack says. 

“No. Neil is an opportunist. Kevin is blocking the smart play and opening himself to everything else.” 

“The not-smart plays?” Wymack asks, amused. 

“Neil’s speciality.” 

They watch as Aaron throws a desperate block, racquet and arm up; Neil spins easily around it, rolls his back against Aaron’s and uses the momentum to sling the ball, smashing it just inside the unguarded side of the goal that Kevin had obviously deemed too risky a shot to take. 

“I hear you’ve turned over a new leaf,” Wymack says. 

“Did you.” 

“Twenty grand is a lot of money.” 

“You don’t say.” 

“Is this what passes for polite conversation in your world?” 

“The cashier at the bookstore was named Devin. They have two cats and a hedgehog. It can be tricky keeping the peace.” 

“What’s the hedgehog named?” 

“Don’t make me say it.” 

“Was it Sonic?” 

“Yes,” Andrew confirms. “They said the irony made it sincere again.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, watching Aaron and Neil dance on each other’s toes. Aaron feints left and Neil almost falls for it, stepping back a moment too late; they trip over racquets and ankles and hit the floor in a jumble. Kevin bangs his borrowed, too-short goalie racquet loudly, Aaron scrambles for a place to put his hands for leverage, but Neil just sprawls on his back, laughing. 

“How is he?” Wymack asks. 

“He’s good.” 

“What about you?” 

There are very few people who could ask him this question and get an answer. There are very few people who could ask it and make Andrew think they actually wanted an answer. Wymack is one of them. Wymack is maybe the first of them. 

“Also good,” Andrew says after a long pause. 

“I'm glad,” Wymack says in a voice so paternal it reaches out and pats Andrew’s shoulder without Wymack so much as twitching a finger. “You deserve it.” 

“Go away, old man. It looks like you are about to have a war on your hands.” 


	14. January 13

Andrew slips between the elevator doors just before they close. If he’d seen its previous residents, he might have taken the stairs. Instead, he’s confronted with a tall, wiry kid with close-cropped blond hair, a middle-aged woman who must be his mother, and a stack of toilet paper that reaches Andrew’s chin. Atop the tower sits an electric kettle, still in its box. 

The elevator floor rumbles as it begins its slow climb upwards. 

“Well, hello,” the mother says brightly. “You must be a student athlete, too.” 

The kid hisses, “ _Mom_ ,” in abject mortification. 

“Yes,” Andrew says. 

“Jared is joining the swim team,” she says. “What sport do you play?” 

“Exy.” 

“ _Mom_ ,” Jared hisses again. “That is _Andrew Minyard_.” 

Oh, good. His reputation precedes him. 

“Maybe not,” Andrew says. “I could be Aaron Minyard.” 

“How nice,” the mother says. “I’m probably embarrassing Jared. He practically begged me not to buy all of this toilet paper, but I told him, everyone needs toilet paper.” 

“She is right,” Andrew says to the kid. “It’s like cigarettes in prison.” 

The mom laughs. Andrew can’t tell if she’s oblivious to or amused by the years she’s taking off her son’s life. 

“Well, he’s in 412,” she says. “If you need to borrow some.” 

Jared’s blush is so fierce that his neck is almost purple. 

“Do you have any tips? As someone who’s lived in this dorm--a year? Two?” 

“Two,” Andrew confirms. “And I do have advice. Stay off the roof.” 

There hadn’t really been enough room for him to turn all the way around and face the elevator; when the doors ding open behind him, Andrew offers the kid a lazy salute and steps backwards, onto the industrial strength burnt orange carpet that lines the hallways. 


	15. January 14

The glass door of the convenience store is cloudy from years of abrasive cleaners, fog, and dust. It shuts a little too hard behind Andrew, making the metal squeal in tandem with the ear-piercing shrill of the bell. 

He’s mostly there for cigarettes, but he grabs a few bags of gummy worms, Aaron’s favorite neon red Mountain Dew, and a few bottles of chocolate milk for himself. The register, when he gets there, is cluttered with pricey impulse buys and lottery tickets. 

“Carton of Camels,” Andrew says, nodding over the guy’s shoulder at the cigarette shelves. 

The clerk heaves himself off of his stool to retrieve them. Andrew watches blankly as he rings them up, and then the Mountain Dew. This is as good a time as any, so he says, “Hey, man. What do you think about zombies?” 

“Zombies?” 

“Yep. Do you have a zombie plan?” 

The guy considers this, his expression distant as he rings up each gummy package. “I guess I’d come here,” he says. “Built-in barricades. Plenty of food and drink. A good shotgun.” 

He pauses, points one of the bottles of chocolate milk at Andrew, and says, “Forget that last part.” 

“Forgotten.” 

“What about you?” 

“Costco,” Andrew says. “Food, shoes, clothes, books, furniture.” 

“Yeah, dude. You’d have to defend it though.” 

Andrew gestures with the driver’s license he has ready in his hand, pointing out the cameras and the security gates on the wall of windows. “It’s pretty fortified. No windows. Skylights. You could grow shit along the perimeter of the roof.” 

“Got room for one more?” the guy asks, clearly joking. 

“Bring that shotgun and we’ll talk." 


	16. January 15 (by @justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is brought to you by [@justadreamfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox) who, I imagine, needs no introduction. 
> 
> Thank you for writing in present tense, Zan. I appreciate your sacrifice.

She starts tipping in his general direction again. 

Andrew watches her deflate out of the corner of his eye, a crooked souffle collapsing in slow motion towards him. He sits up a little straighter, leans to the left, but she keeps coming; an object in motion about to meet an immovable object. 

Andrew grips his pen and wields it between them. It is a paltry but effective defence between his arm and the encroaching brunette. 

Perhaps Andrew miscalculated the fallout, because when his sleepy classmate meets the pointy end of his pen she jerks upright, eyes flying open with a _“Shit”_ just loud enough to capture the attention of their professor. 

The girl squeaks at the glare thrown their way and slumps down in her chair. The professor moves on to poke at the syllabus some more and Andrew sighs to himself. 

“Late night?” he asks. 

The girl blinks at him, and Andrew has only a second to notice that her eyes are almost the same shade of green as Kevin’s before - to Andrew’s absolute horror - a tear wells up and runs down her cheek, followed by a second and a third. 

Well. Fuck. 

In for a penny, or something. “Bad night then,” he amends. 

She blinks another tear out, sniffs, then nods. 

Allison hadn’t established many rules, but Andrew is pretty sure that the person has to _speak_ to him for this to count. He searches his brain for what makes people cry. 

“Boy?” he asks. 

“Girl,” she whispers. 

“Ah.” Andrew nods. 

“She cheated on me.” 

“Ah,” Andrew says. 

“With my roommate.” She sniffles again. 

Andrew nods. 

“Over break. I just found out last night.” 

“That sucks,” Andrew tries. He hates this so much. 

“I kind of want to kill her.” 

Oh. This is more up his alley. “Sounds reasonable,” he says. 

“You think?” 

“I suggest knives,” Andrew offers. 

She nods thoughtfully. “Messy though.” 

Andrew considers. “Poison, then.” 

“I wonder where you can buy hemlock in Palmetto?” She’s stopped crying at least. 

“There’s construction on the other side of campus. Good place to bury a body.” 

“Noted.” 

The stack of syllabi lands on his desk and Andrew takes one for each of them and passes it on. 

“Thanks,” she says, and wipes her nose on her sleeve. 

Andrew nods and turns away to flip through the syllabus. 

“I’m Sarah, by the way,” she says as class ends. 

Andrew gives her his name. Collateral damage, he supposes. 


	17. January 16

“Excuse me,” the woman says. She can’t be much older than Andrew, but the neat suit she’s wearing gives her an air of maturity. “Can I talk to you for a moment about the future of our country.” 

This ought to be good. 

“That depends,” Andrew says. 

“On what?” 

“What you want it to look like.” 

“Well,” she laughs. “We are the best party on campus.” 

Andrew eyes from the hem of her modest skirt to the top of her smoothly twisted hair. 

“I’m Melanie,” she says, offering him a flyer. 

Andrew takes it. _The best party on campus!!_ , it says. Andrew disapproves of the verbatim recitation of the flyer as a recruitment strategy. Beneath that, it says, _Support our troops, our president, our country, and your freedoms!: Vote Republican!!!_

He looks from the flyer to Melanie. 

“Would you like to join our mailing list?” she asks, hopefully. “Or maybe come to one of our events?” 

“This is not an election year,” Andrew says. 

“Well,” she says, smiling brightly. “We do still like each other when it’s not an election year.” 

“Yes,” Andrew says. 

“Yes?” 

“Sign me up.” 

“Great! What’s your name?” 

“Matt,” Andrew says. “Boyd. B-o-y-d.” 


	18. January 17

“Think, pair, share!” the professor says. 

Andrew’s left eye twitches. He does his best not to make eye contact with anyone, but a kid in the next row manages to lock on, homing missile style. They have a killer undercut with a tumble of black curls across their forehead. They are slight. Androgynous. The best of Andrew’s options in this class. 

He nods once. The kid half-stands and drags their chair over to the edge of Andrew’s table. 

“Hi,” they say breathlessly. “I’m Bailey.” 

“Andrew.” 

“I know,” they say, smiling ruefully; they pull a notebook out from underneath their textbook. It’s black, with an enormous “ _Jos10”_ sticker on it, the orange letters bordered by an inch of glossy white paper on every side. 

“Ugh,” Andrew says drily. “That guy.” 

“Not a fan?” Bailey asks, the lightness of their tone a clear sign that they will not believe any of Andrew’s bullshit. He supposes he had pretty publicly announced his allegiance when he broke Riko’s fucking arm. 

“He’s fine,” Andrew says. Neil would approve of that, at least. 

“Anyway,” Bailey says. “I won’t sports fan all over you. Let’s talk about the story. I liked it.” 

Andrew nods. He’d liked it, too. 

“The un-naming resonated with me,” Bailey says. “Labels are just damaging across the board, I think. Even if they’re supposed to be the good ones.” 

Andrew thinks about _monster_ , _psychopath_ , _survivor_. He says, “Collective names flatten subjective experience.” 

“Right,” Bailey says, hastily scribbling in their notebook. “And I think Le Guin is suggesting we need to liberate ourselves from categorization and expectations.” 


	19. January 18

“I heard you have to be nice now,” Jack sneers. 

“You heard wrong,” Andrew says flatly. 

“Your little bet?” 

Andrew ignores him. He’d already done his duty for the day and endured a three-minute-long conversation with the girl at the coffee shop who’d enthusiastically helped him pick out another fruity iced tea drink for Neil when whatever magic ingredient was in his usual had been out of stock. 

“Reynolds,” Jack calls across the court. “I think the psycho here is reneging on your bet.” 

“How do you figure?” she calls back. 

“He won’t talk to me.” 

“Ah.” Allison pulls off her helmet, revealing a storm of blonde that crackles around the surviving parts of her bun. “No, he has to talk to _other humans_. You don’t count.” 

Andrew turns to watch the blood rush into Jack’s angry face. He presses the edge of his racquet to Jack’s chest and pushes him backwards a few steps. “Go very far away now.” 


	20. January 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Nathaniel Wesninski!

It’s Neil’s birthday. Sort of. It’s Nathaniel’s birthday. The last one had slipped by in a flood of blood and Neil’s displaced panic over his gear. The new documents--Neil Josten’s documents--list his birthday in March, but the others had insisted on replacing that bloody January memory with a better one. Andrew had registered his disapproval of their more outlandish ideas with impassive silence and the occasional shake of his head. Ultimately, they’d settled on pizza and presents in one of the student lounges and then a speedy departure for Columbia. Alone. 

Andrew feels Allison step up next to him, but he ignores her in favor of watching Neil awkwardly but fondly accept the attentions of the other Foxes. 

“Is it sex?” Allison asks. 

“Is what sex?” 

“Your gift. The one that’s ‘waiting in Columbia.’” 

Oddly, Andrew doesn’t remember telling Allison anything of the sort. 

“One-track mind, Reynolds?” 

“If that track is the one that doubts your investment in other people’s happiness, then yes.” 

Andrew doesn’t really have an answer for that. Further into the room, Neil examines each side of a sloppily-wrapped package. The paper is a pale blue with cutesy, cartoonish foxes printed all over it. Neil slides a finger under the uneven point of wrapping on one side and carefully detaches the glossy, ragged tape from the paper. No one should be surprised that he wouldn’t rip it open and throw the packaging to the side. 

“Or maybe,” Allison says thoughtfully, “we’ve been reading you all wrong.” 

“Yes,” Andrew says. 

“Yes?” 

“It’s sex.” 

“You know, I don’t think I believe you.” 

“Not my problem.” 

“I think maybe you’d give him anything you had.” 

Neil carefully folds the paper into a neat square before turning his attention to the box. 

“I bet on you two,” Allison says. “I saw the way you looked at each other.” 

Andrew turns a look on Allison that conveys, he hopes, the exact opposite of whatever she sees when he looks at Neil. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” she says, undeterred by his silence. “If you tell me what you got Neil for his birthday, I’ll accept this weekend away as proof of humanity.” 

“Oh?” Andrew asks. 

“Far be it for me to interrupt a romantic trip with arbitrary small talk requirements. But if you got him something lame, I reserve the right to change my mind.” 

Andrew considers this. Two days without having to seek out random people to converse with--especially _these_ two days--is an offer he won’t turn down lightly. 

“A safe,” Andrew says. 

“A safe?” 

“The man has secrets.” 

“From you?” 

Andrew shrugs one shoulder. It hadn’t been all that long ago that Neil clutched his duffle to him everywhere he went, that he’d held onto that binder as a matter of life or death. If he’s hiding other shit, Andrew doesn’t know about it--but either way, this offering isn’t about the things that might go into the safe; it’s about having the space to fill if he needs it. 

Allison hums. “I think that is actually romantic, as fucked up as it is.” 

“Disgusting.” 

“Oh, yeah,” she says, grinning widely. “I think maybe, from the right angle, the two of you _are_ disgusting.” 

“I hate him,” Andrew says. 

“Yeah.” She nods. “I bet you never thought you could hate anyone as much as you hate him.” 

“You’re coming a close second,” Andrew says pointedly. 

“Okay, okay. You’re off the hook for the weekend. But I expect to see that boy glowing when you get back.” 

Neil looks up and back at them. The shitty dorm lighting catches the gleaming, undamaged auburn of his freshly cut hair. His eyes are bright, luminous, the sky over the Arctic. Even at his dullest, Andrew thinks, Neil has always shone. 


	21. January 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Joe Biden Day!

Patience is a virtue. It’s one of Andrew’s primary virtues, if you ask him. A less patient man could not tolerate any one of these assholes, much less all of them at once. Tolerance is another. He is surrounded by idiots, but his tolerance for their idiocy, he thinks, is remarkable. Still, when Neil starts rolling out of bed to go for a run on Saturday morning, Andrew stops him. 

Andrew stops him by sitting on him. It’s effective. 

“No running,” Andrew announces. 

“I wasn’t,” Neil protests. 

Andrew gives him a hard look. It says: _you can lie to everyone else, but you can’t lie to me_. 

“I didn’t even pack running clothes,” Neil says. 

“You have a whole drawer of hideous shorts.” 

“You like the shorts.” 

“I hate the shorts. I like the way you look in them.” 

Neil lifts his hands and hovers them above Andrew’s thighs, waiting for permission. Andrew gives it with a nod and says, “Pancakes.” 

“Pancakes,” Neil says agreeably. His hands spread out over Andrew’s upper thighs, warm through the cupcake-patterned flannel of Andrew’s pajama pants. “Then what?” 

“We look at new phones. And running shoes. Yours are falling apart. I blow you again.” 

“Wow. All that before lunch?” 

Disapprovingly, Andrew braces his hands to either side of Neil’s head and leans down to kiss him. Their mouths are sour. The air is musty from the heater and the previous night’s sex and probably, Andrew assumes, dust. 

“Then lunch,” Andrew murmurs against Neil’s mouth. 

“More sex,” Neil interjects. 

“More sex. A movie. Maybe a nap.” 

“What I’m hearing is no sports.” 

“None,” Andrew agrees. 

“If you had a summer camp, what would people do all day?" 

“The kids?” 

Neil nods. His thumbs trace carefully over the curves of frosting atop the colorful cupcakes. 

“Whatever the fuck they want.” 


	22. January 21

“What do I do with it?” Neil asks, frowning at the little rectangle of metal in his hand. 

“Listen to music.” 

“What music?” 

“Just give it to me,” Andrew says. He holds out his hand expectantly. 

Neil drops the iPod into Andrew’s palm and slides over on the couch until he’s close enough to watch over Andrew’s shoulder while he opens his laptop and connects the mp3 player with the appropriate cords. Andrew has no experience with these things, but he’s confident that he could have emerged from a 100-year-long sleep and still figure this out faster than Neil could. 

“Whose idea was this?” Neil asks. 

It was Kevin’s gift, but he doesn’t have any more experience giving gifts than Neil does receiving them. It’s a message in a language neither of them speaks very well; something was bound to get lost in translation. 

“Kevin’s,” Andrew says. He clicks a series of buttons on his laptop screen to start installing drivers or whatever. “To liven up your runs.” 

“It would liven up my run a lot if I didn’t hear someone trying to run me down with their car.” 

“Use one earbud. Use it on the treadmill. Use it to discourage strangers from talking to you in the library.” 

The antisocial possibilities spark a light in Neil’s eyes. 

“Or give it to me,” Andrew adds. 

“Or,” Neil says slowly, “forget to charge it and then lose it somewhere in the car.” 

Andrew feels the edges of a smile press into the corners of his mouth. He suppresses it and, instead, moves the first song from his music library to the little iPod. At least Neil is self aware. “Yes. Probably.” 


	23. January 22 (rainbowobsidian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [@RainbowObsidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowObsidian/pseuds/RainbowObsidian) and features our first shift in POV! Thank you, LOUJENN.

Kevin toes off his shoes and closes the door, sliding down the cool veneer to land with his legs splayed out in front of him. He’s tired. The dorm is blessedly empty; Andrew and Neil have classes for another couple of hours and he has nowhere he needs to be and no energy to get there even if he did. He rubs his face vigorously with both hands in an attempt to rouse himself and then groans. God he hopes he isn’t coming down with something. He doesn’t feel… viral, exactly… just a bit ordinary. Maybe Dan is right and they should build up the late night practices slowly; they’ve been going hard since they returned after Christmas. Alarmed, he brings one palm to his forehead to check for a fever - there’s no other reason he would entertain that thought. 

He doesn’t have a fever. 

He thinks back over the last week and decides his fatigue must be a combination of extra sessions on top of regular training, poor sleep and the fact that they ate and drank more like students and less like athletes while they were in Columbia. Garden variety exhaustion. 

He drags himself up, pulls out a couple of textbooks and heads over to his desk. May as well get some work done while he waits for Neil to get back so they can watch the Bearcats game from last weekend before practice tonight. He reads the same paragraph several times and eventually pushes the book aside so he can lay his head on the desk, just for a minute or three. 

Kevin is startled awake by banging on the wall that joins their room to Aaron, Nicky and Matt’s. He fumbles for his phone to see what time it is and is further assaulted by three more knocks, slower this time. Three more thumps, and - did he just get SOSed? He thinks about texting Nicky to tell him to shut the fuck up (noone else would make such a racket) and decides to take the low road and hit the wall in retaliation instead. 

“Kevin?” he hears through the wall, and though it’s muffled, there’s no doubt it’s Nicky. He ignores him. The knocks come again, three sharp, short thumps, three drawn out, three in quick succession. He’s definitely being summoned. “Kevin!” 

Kevin pushes away from the desk and swipes his keys as he stalks out of the room. Nicky’s door is wide open of course, and he’s just about to give him a piece of his mind when he rounds the corner to the kitchen and sees Nicky in front of the sink. He’s sopping wet from head to toe, trying desperately to stem the flow of water from the tap spout, and by the looks of things, failing miserably. The handle is redundant on the bench beside him and water is pooled over the bench and on the floor at his feet. 

“Oh thank fuck, Kevin, what took you so long?” Nicky wails. “I SOSed you!” 

“What are you doing?” he asks, bewildered, amused, and suddenly awake. 

“What does it look like, asshole? I’m trying to stop the flow before the entire dorm floods. Do you have your phone? We need to call maintenance.” Kevin shakes his head. “Here - grab mine,” he says, pointing his ass in Kevin’s direction “- it’s in my pocket.” 

“I’m not sticking my hand in your pocket Nicky, let go of the tap.” 

“But -” he lets go and lets out a soft _oh_ when the water starts pouring down the sink instead of spraying out all over the benchtop now that the pressure from his hands has been removed. Kevin grabs a towel from the hamper of clean laundry on the sofa and throws it at Nicky. 

“Give me your phone you idiot, and I’ll call maintenance,” he says, shaking his head. “What on earth prompted you to stick your hand under the tap like that?” He dials campus switch and asks to be put through to the plumber. 

“Oh my god, I _am_ an idiot,” Nicky says, voice muffled under the towel as he scrubs it over his face and through his hair. “I turned the tap on to wash my hands, and the whole handle just fell off in my hand. Water gushed out hard - I must have cranked it right up - and I just - my brain just told me to stop the flow. I’ve been standing here for ten minutes making everything way worse than it would have been if I’d just let go.” 

Kevin rolls his eyes and laughs at Nicky, then shoves him out of the way so he can squat down in front of the sink to open the cupboards and look at the pipes, figuring there must be a main tap under here somewhere. He gives the dorm number to maintenance when the call is connected and follows their instructions for turning off the water supply to the kitchen, then stands to face Nicky. 

“They’ll be here in half an hour. Come on, loser,” he says fondly, peeling off his now soggy socks. “I’ll help you clean up this mess.” 

They use all of the dry towels from the hamper, and raid Aaron’s stash so they can finish cleaning up, and then, because they still have ten minutes, run the towels down to the student laundry. He’s first out of the stairwell when they reach their floor and stops so suddenly that Nicky crashes into his back, pushing him forward a few more steps. 

The door to his dorm is open. 

It’s possible Neil or Andrew have come back early but he’s never known either of them to leave the door _unlocked_ , let alone wide open for anyone to walk in. 

He hears Andrew’s muted voice coming from inside, and though he’s still too far away to make out what he’s saying he thinks he hears a laugh. It’s not one he recognises. 

Nicky, wide eyed, sidles up to Kevin. “Maybe Neil invited someone over to study?” he says, though he doesn’t look like he believes it anymore than Kevin does. 

Kevin clears his throat as he reaches the door, and then walks inside. Andrew is leaning against the desk chatting with - 

“Kevin, this is Hal.” 

Kevin takes in Hal’s navy blue uniform and steel capped boots. He has a PSU lanyard around his neck attached to an ID card that says MAINTENANCE. He’s holding a glass of water. Kevin’s eyes widen a moment as he looks - alarmingly - to Andrew then back to Hal, and checks for obvious signs of injury. If anything, Hal looks amused. 

“Hal was in our room when I got back from class,” Andrew says, around a mouthful of ice cream that he’s eating directly from the tub. He tilts his head at Kevin and raises an eyebrow. 

“Erm,” Kevin begins, “sorry. I must have told you the wrong dorm?” 

He looks to Andrew now and even though he’s eating ice cream, and he doesn’t _look_ particularly angry, even though he isn’t pulling a knife - or spoon - on anyone yet, it’s only a matter of time because Andrew never looks _anything_ and fuck, Kevin needs to do something, say something, try to make amends. “Andrew I’m really sorry, I must have given him the wrong room number.” 

“So you said,” Andrew responds, casting a bored glance over at Nicky, still soggy, and standing in the open doorway watching in a kind of wide-eyed wonder meets horrific car crash. “Imagine my surprise when I came back from class early and there was a man in our dorm.” 

Instead of looking sheepish, Hal grins and hooks his free thumb in his belt loop, then gives Kevin a wink. “Campus regulations state we can access dorms if a task has been logged, so long as we leave the door open while we’re here. For transparency, you see?” Kevin feels like an idiot now and not just for the mixup but because he’s trying to figure out why Hal looks… delighted. And _… alive_. How anyone who was found by Andrew Minyard in his dorm room uninvited could look anything other than terrified or dead is a mystery. 

“Apparently we have a leak,” Andrew says, toasting his Ben & Jerry’s towards Hal. The plumber raises his glass in return. 

“Like I said -” Kevin starts. 

“Oh, don’t apologise!” Hal grins. “Your roommate here has been telling me his favourite plumbing jokes!” 

“He’s… what?” Kevin asks noone in particular, and wonders for a moment if this is a fever dream after all. 

“And in return, Hal has been telling me about plumbing in ancient Egypt,” Andrew says, sounding about as interested as he usually does. “Anyway, judging by the look of the drowned fox in the corner, I suspect you’re needed next door.” 

At this, Nicky turns on his heels and Kevin can hear him squelching down the hall to open his door. 

“Thanks again for the water,” Hal says, putting his glass in the sink and making his way to leave. “Do you think he’ll mind if I use his facilities while I’m there? You’ve already been more than hospitable.” 

“You know what they say, Hal,” Andrew deadpans. “Plumbing is the only profession where you get to take a leak and fix one at the same time.” 


	24. January 23 (lemonicee)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's magnificent chapter brought to you by [@lemonicee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonicee/) and my own laziness, a tried and true partnership that has endured for more than a decade.

Andrew is halfway to his first class when a visibly anxious guy stops him in the middle of the sidewalk. Andrew blinks at him. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, because this is his life now. Talking to people. 

“Yeah, dude. I’m Nate. We have BioChem together?” Nate’s white-boy dreads and general haze of pot smoke makes Andrew wonder what the fuck he’s doing in a pre-med program, but who is Andrew to judge. 

“BioChem,” Andrew echoes. “Right.” 

“So, okay,” Nate says, waving his hands for emphasis as he speaks. “I know we had class yesterday but my girl made these edibles that just, like, sent me to the moon, you know?” 

While Nate narrates his experience with his girlfriend’s “dope” brownies, Andrew has a brief mental tug-of-war with himself. Does he tell this guy he isn’t Aaron? Does he not tell him and relay a message to Aaron later? Or does he not tell the dude he’s not Aaron and _also_ not relay the as yet unclear message? That one seems like the easiest, but Neil’s probable disapproval is floating in the back of Andrew’s head, rent free. 

Before he can weigh any more pros or cons, Nate says, “So I need a favor,” and Andrew refocuses his attention. 

“I just need to borrow your notes,” Nate is saying. “If I fail another class, they’re going to kick my ass out of here.” 

“That sucks,” Andrew says. “You should probably ask Aaron instead, though. Just look for a cheerleader with a dude who looks exactly like me following her around. It’ll be easy.” 

With that, he checks today’s interaction off his mental to-do list and leaves Nate sputtering in confusion behind him. 


	25. January 24

The apple Neil had thrown to Andrew as he’d hustled, four-and-a-half minutes late, out to his first class remains mostly intact in his backpack. He has a fifteen minute break between Lit and Sociology of Deviance and only twenty feet to walk between them, so this time serves as his unofficial snack break. He’d been too late to grab anything for breakfast. His stomach grumbles in irritation with his choices. 

Andrew hops onto a low, sparse planter and props his back up against the wall behind it. He fishes a knife out of his armband and slices off a generous wedge of apple. 

“Hey,” a harried voice says. It belongs to a tall, nervous-looking guy who positively looms over Andrew. Andrew tries not to hold it against him. 

The guy’s eyes flit between Andrew’s face and his knife. Andrew pops the apple slice into his mouth and raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“Can I borrow your knife?” the guy asks. 

Which is not a response Andrew typically gets to brandishing a weapon on campus. 

“What for?” Andrew asks. 

“I Frankensteined an external harddrive but it’s not working and I need it for my next class and I can’t get it open to see what’s wrong.” 

Andrew considers this and then flips the knife in his hand, offering the handle to the guy. The guy takes it, uses the blade to quickly and confidently pop the casing on his little black box open, and then starts poking around at the collections of wires and chips. 

“Did you find it?” Andrew asks. 

“Yeah,” the guy says absently. “It’s this connection. The wire broke.” 

Andrew watches as the guy sandwiches the broken wire between his thumb and the blade, flicks his wrist easily, and strips the red plastic skin of the wire back from the fine copper fibers. There's another knife in his armband; he grabs it and slices into his apple again, watching with interest as guy--faded jeans, Andrew notices, big belt buckle, green waffle-knit shirt unbuttoned at the neck--makes quick work of twisting and folding or whatevering. Andrew honestly does not know. 

“My professor is a hard-ass,” the guy says without looking up from his work. “This girl turned in her project on a CD in a plastic baggie in another class I took with him last year and then the next meeting he spent ten minutes lecturing us all on taking pride in our work and not insulting him with sandwich bags and sharpies.”* 

“That’s rough,” Andrew says. He knows a few exy players who would probably take notes on that method. 

With a few more deft twists of his wrist and fine maneuvers with the tip of the blade, the guy hands the knife back with a smile. “Thanks,” he says. “Wish me luck.” 

“Luck,” Andrew says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * From [2birds1blog](http://www.2birds1blog.com/2009/01/annotated-anthology-of-awkward.html), a magnificent blog I read religiously in the late 2000s:
> 
> _I forgot to bring a jewel case for the CD that my design project is on. So what do I use to protect my CD? A ZIPLOCK BAG WITH LITTLE BITS OF CRUNCHED GOLDFISH CRACKERS AT THE BOTTOM I FOUND IN MY MESSENGER BAG FROM GOD ONLY KNOWS WHEN. Who the fuck does that? And then to compensate, I wrote "sorry about the bag" on it, but I forgot the "y" in the word sorry. So I had to draw a little carrot and a y, making myself look like an even bigger asshole. So now I'm that girl who came into class 20 minutes late the first day, who's computer is never connected to the server and who presented her first project in a ziplock bag with bits of goldfish crackers and "sorr about the bag" scrawled on it. I am so fucking awkward. [note: I damn near had a panic attack remembering this incident. The next time our class met, the professor (whom I had such a huge crush on) held up the bag in front of the entire class and delivered a five-minute lecture on how disrespectful I was and how designers who don't take pride in their deliverable should change their major. I have never felt so stupid in my entire life. I went back to my dorm room and cried my fucking eyes out. Oh my God.]_


	26. January 25 (by justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@justadreamfox](archiveofourown.org/user/justadreamfox/) wrote this one, very generously, because she had already finished her mixtape fic and I hadn't. 
> 
> Good thing she did--it's fantastic.

On Thursday Andrew wears a pink t-shirt to class. 

It wasn’t pink when he bought it, but Neil had done their laundry alone one time (the first and last time) and indiscriminately thrown light and dark colors in with Kevin’s new USC Trojan hoodie. Three t-shirts, several sets of socks, and one lone pair of boxers had come out the most delicate shade of rose. 

Pink shirt days mean the laundry situation has reached critical mass. 

After his lone Thursday class Andrew shoves essentials into the giant orange laundry bag he shares with Neil: socks, boxers, t-shirts, running shorts, hoodies, armbands. He considers his sheets, lifts the corner of Neil’s comforter and frowns. They need to be washed too. Andrew decides to save sheets for round two. 

The laundry room is empty when Andrew hip checks the swinging door open and drags the overstuffed bag over to his preferred set of machines. He sorts colors, adds detergent and quarters, mashes the appropriate buttons. With both machines humming happily, Andrew hops up onto the counter and flips open his book. Perhaps he should be considering his homework, but the only appropriate reading material for laundry day is trashy noir, and far be it from Andrew to taunt the laundry gods. 

That sort of behavior is how one winds up with pink t-shirts. 

The femme fatale has just made her first appearance on the page, a skin-tight red dress and luscious breasts on display, and Andrew wonders idly if there are gay noir novels he could get his hands on when both machines whirr and pop and fall silent. He switches their contents to the dryers, makes a quick round trip to gather up his and Neil’s sheets, and reclaims his perch. 

He’s just started chapter five when his luck runs out and a tiny brunette pushes into the room, an overloaded basket propped on her hip. Andrew flicks enough of a look over the top of his book to catalogue his new laundry buddy: freshman, barely five feet even, probably a gymnast, threat level zero. He turns a page, ignoring her, then sighs when he tracks her heading to the far side of the room out of the corner of his eye. 

“Not that one,” he says, holding his place with one finger and looking up. 

The girl whips around and a pair of jeans tumble out of her basket. She blushes and balances both basket and detergent while simultaneously swiping the lost pants from the floor. 

Graceful. Definitely a gymnast. 

“That one will eat your quarters,” Andrew says once she has stabilized. 

“Oh.” She blinks at him and shifts her weight, looking around the room. 

“That row over there is acceptable,” Andrew says, inclining his head to the wall in front of him. “Except the one right in the middle.” 

“What’s wrong with the one in the middle?” 

“Spin cycle is broken,” Andrew says. He doesn’t say that it was broken because he and Neil had done the laundry together one night last semester, that they had perhaps shoved up against it one too many times. Shame, really. It used to be the best machine in the room. 

“Thanks,” she says with a tentative smile. 

Andrew nods. 

She hesitates and then adds, “I like your shirt.” 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Make sure to separate your colors,” he says, and turns back to his novel. 


	27. January 26

Roland sets a few whiskeys onto a tray smoothly and grins at Andrew. “Long time, no see.” 

“Three weeks,” Andrew says. 

“Four,” Roland counters. 

“Three. We did not come last week. The week before that you were home with the flu.” 

“Aw, did you miss me?” 

“No.” 

“Did you miss my generous pour?” 

“Yes.” 

Roland grins again. “How are you, man? How’s my replacement?” 

“Your replacement,” Andrew echoes disapprovingly. 

“Yeah. A little taller than you. Red hair. Blue eyes. Looks like a guy you don’t want to meet in a dark alley. Guards your back like a rabid dog.” 

“Fox,” Andrew corrects. 

“Yeah, you guys do seem to be a little too into your mascot.” 

“Neil is fine.” 

“He _really_ is.” 

“Stop it,” Andrew commands, even though Roland is not wrong, even though this is good-natured teasing, even though if Neil were here he’d just blink blankly at Roland. “If you keep talking, I will need more shots.” 

Roland, his eyes sparkling, lines up five on the bar. “You have to invite me to the wedding.” 

“What wedding.” 

“I mean, you should actually thank me for getting you two together.” 

“Should I?” 

With a flourish, Roland puts the now-full shot glasses around the cluster of larger glasses in the middle of the tray. He says, “Shouldn’t you?” 

“Put this on my tab,” Andrew says. “It’s been terrible catching up. Let’s not do it again.” 


	28. January 27

Aaron, for some reason, is allowed to opt out. Andrew wasn’t--or, rather, he could have, but he isn’t strongly motivated to do so. Neil rarely drinks, so hangovers have no chance to keep him down. Kevin drinks like a fish—but, these days, less. Whatever he’d been trying to hide from in the bottom of a bottle (and he’d had a lot to hide from) seems to have loosened its hold on him. Since Riko’s death. Since Neil made the deal with Ichirou. Since Jean was safe in California with Jeremy. Since he and Neil had hit the court healed and whole and taking vicious satisfaction in being walking nightmares for every other team in their division 

So, if his asshole family wants to go for a “walk” in the park, Andrew supposes he’s going with them. 

A walk, of course, turns into a foot race for Kevin and Neil. They race ahead, “just to the tree”, and then “just to the fountain” and then “just up the stairs and back around.” The _justs_ fall by the wayside fairly quickly. 

Andrew, though, has Nicky with him. They walk—not run, but not stroll—and mostly watch Neil and Kevin fuck around. 

“They’re cute,” Nicky says fondly. 

Ahead of them, Kevin chases Neil around a clump of trees. 

“Are they?” Andrew asks. 

Neil finally breaks from the cover of trees and the safety of his ability to move between and around them with inhuman speed. Phoenix-like, Kevin rallies, runs flat out, uses the length of his arm to snag the back of Neil’s hoodie and tackle him to the ground. 

“Yeah,” Nicky laughs. 

Kevin shouts, “You _bit_ me.” 

“I guess,” Andrew says grudgingly. 

“They’re good for you. You’re good for them, too, I just wish—I wish I had been able to be good for you like that.” 

Andrew feels his brow wrinkle and smooths it out. “You were. You have been.” 

“I got you into more trouble,” Nicky says helplessly. “The drugs.” 

“Stop that,” Andrew says. “You gave us a home.” 

“I know, I just—” 

“You gave them a home, too,” Andrew interrupts. He nods towards the idiots who are still chasing each other around the park. It seems to be Kevin’s turn to flee—he gets a lead by virtue of his height, but he can’t outpace Neil for long. When Neil launches himself at Kevin’s back, though, Kevin doesn’t go down. He stumbles, reaches back, hefts Neil higher into a very loose sort of piggyback hold, and...keeps running. 

“Hey, Andrew,” Nicky says. He sounds delighted. Never a good sign. 

“What?” 

Nicky’s only answer is a piercing whistle. Andrew looks to him, startled, and finds him waving someone over. 

“What are you doing?” Andrew asks. 

“Look!” Nicky says. Andrew looks, but finds more people looking back at him than he would have expected. Nicky holds up both hands and gestures towards Andrew, Vanna White-style. “It’s him!” 

“It’s who?” Andrew asks warily. 

One of the people breaks away from the group. There’s a moment of hesitation and then he runs over, easily leaving behind the older woman who follows him. 

“Are you really Andrew Minyard?” the kid asks. 

Andrew says, “No,” but it’s drowned out by Nicky’s louder and more enthusiastic, “Yes!” 

Belatedly, Andrew realizes the kid is wearing a jersey under his hoodie. Minyard. 03. 

“I am...such a fan,” the kid says. His enthusiasm is thinly covered by a layer of awkward restraint. 

“Do you play?” Andrew asks. 

“Yeah, but not goalie. I’m a striker.” 

The woman who catches up with him lays a hand on his shoulder and smiles half-apologetically at Andrew. 

“You’re a fan of obstacles?” Andrew asks. 

It startles a bark of laughter out of the kid. “No,” he says, “I mean, _yes_ , I just—goalies are the real test, right? I’ll never go up against another striker, not really. But if I could get a goal past you…” 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. 

“Not that I could,” the kid hastens to add. “Well, not yet. I mean, not if you didn’t want me to.” 

“Would you be willing to sign something for Jacob?” the older lady asks. “If it’s not an imposition.” 

“ _Grandma._ ” 

“Yeah,” Andrew says. “If you have a pen.” 

The woman digs around in her purse and emerges with a purple sharpie. “Will this work?” 

Andrew takes it and considers the kid, considers the little notebook the grandmother is digging out of her bag. 

“Take off the hoodie,” Andrew says. “I’ll sign the jersey.” 

“Oh man, really? That’s so cool. Thank you.” 

“Nicky, too, if you want,” Andrew adds. “And those two idiots.” 

Jacob’s eyes get wider when he takes in Kevin and Neil, still forty feet away, but now having moved on to trying what appear to be cheerleading throws. 

“Oh, sick. Do you all, like, live in Columbia?” 

“On the weekends,” Nicky says. “Me, Andrew, Aaron, Kevin, Neil.” 

“That’s so cool.” 

“Turn around,” Andrew says. He uncaps the sharpie once Jacob has dropped the hoodie and turned to give Andrew his back. Andrew writes, _keep dreaming J_ , and signs his name with a flourish. 

“What did you write?” Jacob aks. He contorts himself to try to read what’s written on his own back. 

“Reality check,” Andrew says. He shoves the cap back onto the sharpie and turns, whistling loudly for Kevin and Neil’s attention. Neil starts moving before Kevin does, shifting into a sprint that slows when he catalogues the kid and the grandma and assesses them as not a threat. 

“Hey,” Neil says breathlessly when he arrives, Kevin still a few feet behind. “What’s up?” 

“This is Jacob,” Andrew says. “He thinks you’re a loser.” 

“I don’t,” Jacob squeaks. 

“He thinks you’re irrelevant.” 

“That’s not true,” Jacob says. “I just said, because I’m a striker, too, we’d never be—” 

“You will never have an impact on his game,” Andrew interrupts. 

“Oh my god,” Jacob says. 

Neil rolls his eyes. Fondly. “Don’t worry. He’s just a di—jerk.” 

Andrew hands over the sharpie. “Sign the jersey.” 

“Yours?” Neil asks. “Fine. I guess.” 

He steps behind Jacob, writes carefully and neatly, scrawls something at the bottom, and hands the sharpie to the recently arrived Kevin. Kevin steps into his place, snorts, writes something, steps away, hands it to Nicky. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

“Turn,” Andrew says, once the others are done. “Show me.” 

Jacob turns. Neil has written _Jacob, destroy Andrew Minyard_. Kevin has written _Follow your dreams!_ and drawn a discreet arrow pointing to Neil’s message. Nicky has written _Honorary Fox_ and drawn a rough little fox head. It’s a chaotic jumble of inspiration and incitement. It’s right on brand. 

“Good,” Andrew says. He hands the sharpie back to grandma. “Go kick some ass.” 


	29. January 28

Neil just has to make a decision. Andrew itches to inform him of this, but he doesn’t bother. It wouldn’t do any good. 

“Can I try the mint?” Neil asks. 

The very patient girl behind the counter nods, half-smiles, and dips the little red sample spoon into the vat of green. Neil licks it, sucks it all the way into his mouth, and hums. 

“Could I try the strawberry?” he asks. 

This time, the sample spoon dips into the pink vat. Neil’s face is thoughtful but undecided. 

“He doesn’t like sweets,” Andrew tells the girl, his voice flat to indicate what a pain in the ass this is. “So he suggested we get ice cream.” 

“You like ice cream,” Neil says. 

“I like not watching you stick things in your mouth for an hour.” 

The girl laughs. Neil raises his eyebrows suggestively. 

Andrew stands by what he said. 

“What about you?” the girl asks. “Do you know what you want?” 

“Cheesecake. Heath bar, caramel, Twix. And I’m ordering for him, too.” 

“Bold,” the girl says. “What if he hates it?” 

“Then it’s his own fault and he should be less indecisive.” 

Neil snorts a soft laugh. He’s not prone to indecisiveness. Actually, he could use a bit less decisiveness and a bit more thinking shit through and a lot more asking Andrew's opinion. 

The girl hands off Andrew’s order to one of her co-scoopers and turns her attention back to them. “Okay. Really bespoke ice cream for this one. What are we starting with?” 

“Can we mix two flavors?” Andrew asks. 

“For you guys? Sure.” 

“Mango and Sweet Cream,” Andrew says. She scoops and mashes until they have a pale orange and white marble concoction. Neil looks intrigued. They move down to the mix-ins selection. 

“More fruit?” she asks. “Raspberry would be good with these.” 

“Raspberries,” Andrew agrees. “Strawberry.” 

He looks over the toppings. None of the chocolates would be good, none of the candy, but—this thing needs a little texture. He says as much. 

“Nuts?” she suggests. “Graham crackers?” 

“Granola,” Andrew says, pointing. It’s not inflected like a question, but he means it as one anyway. 

“Oh, definitely,” she says, scooping some of that up, too. 

The guy mixing Andrew’s is done first; he slips a lid on Andrew’s pale concoction. A little bit of ice cream left exposed on the side drips slowly down the cup. When Neil’s is done, the girl hands it right over to him with a spoon. She says, “Try it.” 

Neil tucks his spoon in and comes out with a conservative bite of ice cream, fruit, and a couple of granola bits. He chews, thoughtfully. He swallows. 

Andrew realizes that he, like the girl, is holding his breath. 

Neil shrugs. 

“Asshole,” Andrew says, amused. 

“It’s good,” Neil says. He smiles then, brightly, at the girl, who does something flustered-sounding that’s almost a giggle. 

_Trust me,_ Andrew wants to tell her, _I understand_. 


	30. January 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by [@bazookajo94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazookajo94/pseuds/bazookajo94), whose writing is the perfect combination of murder and laughter.

Neil and Andrew were standing in line at a gas station when they heard a little girl say, “What happened to his face?” Neil almost looked back at the other people in line when he remembered that he was the one with the face. The small child was in front of them, staring up and frowning at Neil’s scars. The small child was alone. Were small children supposed to be alone? 

Uncomfortable at the reminder, and the question, and the attention, and the existence of children in general, Neil was just about to abandon his spot in line and run when from beside him Andrew said, “Guess.” 

The child turned to Andrew. “Guess?” 

Andrew nodded. 

“Um…a cat?” 

“Big cat,” Andrew said. 

The small child seemed excited suddenly, like she was playing a game and Andrew was playing with her. “A tiger?” 

“Maybe.” 

“But what about the burns?” 

“Guess,” Andrew said again. 

“Uh…” The small child thought. “A firework?” 

“Yes.” 

“What?” Neil asked. 

“He set off a firework in his face?” The small child looked at Neil like he was the stupid one. 

Andrew nodded. “Wow,” the small child said. “Dumb.” 

“He is really dumb,” Andrew agreed. 

“Hello?” Neil asked. 

“Hi,” the small child replied. 

“Good guesses,” Andrew said, and then the small child’s parent came rustling up, water bottles and candy in hand, and the small child turned around. Andrew was staring at the candy the parent was holding. Neil sighed, grabbing a bar of candy and adding it to the pile in his arms. 


	31. January 30

Do you know if that’s good?” the voice asks. 

Andrew turns towards it to find a kid, looking intensely stressed and pointing at a warming dish full of something that advertises itself as meatloaf. He says, “No.”

“No you don’t know, or no it’s not good?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew says. 

The kid—probably a freshman, based on their capacity to look this overwhelmed this early in the semester—says, “I like meatloaf when my mom makes it.”

“Try it then.”

“What if it’s not good?”

The solution to this is very simple. Andrew makes firm eye contact as says, “Get some other options.”

“Oh,” the kid says. A little of the fog clears from their eyes. “Right. I can do that, can’t I?”

Andrew points a few trays down. “Try the chicken Parmesan. It’s good.”


	32. Jan 31 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @justadreamfox is my fairy godmother. The glory of this chapter is all her.

The water boils and Andrew dumps the contents of the little blue box into the pot. Neil stirs vigorously with their one wooden spoon until the water starts boiling again. 

“That does not make it boil faster,” Andrew says. 

“Hungry,” Neil hums. 

Andrew leans against the counter in their tiny dorm kitchen and hooks a finger into Neil’s belt loop, tugs him closer, and Andrew is momentarily lost in the wonder of Neil coming willingly, happily, to press up against him - Andrew feels that wonder every damn time. It hasn’t waned, hasn’t dulled. 

Andrew pulls Neil’s hands to his shoulders and kisses him, tastes eagerness and heat and all of their history on his lips, and Andrew gets a little lost in that too, so much so that he almost _startles_ when the little kitchen timer goes off and Neil steps away to drain the macaroni. 

Andrew grabs butter and milk from the half fridge. Neil stirs in the butter until it melts, then dumps the orange powder on top. Andrew opens the milk and grimaces; he can smell the sour without even putting it close to his nose. 

Neil turns around and wrinkles his nose, which pulls at the blotchy red burn scars on his cheek. “It was Kevin’s turn to buy milk,” Neil says, glaring at the jug in Andrew’s hand. 

“Store?” Andrew asks him, offering with the one word to drive across campus to the 24 hour mini mart. 

“Hungry,” Neil repeats. “Dan has milk.” He raises an eyebrow at Andrew. Andrew stares back impassively. The corner of Neil’s mouth ticks up. Andrew narrows his eyes. “Have you talked to anyone who is not me today?” Neil asks. Andrew sighs. The other corner of Neil’s mouth ticks up and now he is just straight up smiling. Andrew hates it. (He doesn’t.) Fuck. 

Renee opens the girl’s door to Andrew’s terse knock. “Andrew,” she says with a smile that Andrew is aware belongs to him. 

“Dan,” he says in response. Renee steps back and pushes the door wider, and Andrew can see Dan tucked into the corner of their couch, notebook spread out on her lap, staring back at him with her mouth slightly agape. “Hello Dan,” Andrew says. He hears Allison snort from her bedroom and ignores it. 

“Andrew,” Dan replies cautiously. 

“Practice was productive today,” he offers. 

Dan nods slowly. “Yes, I was happy with it,” she agrees, staring at him like he’s a wild animal. 

“It was a good move to adapt Kevin’s drills for the freshmen. They are improving,” he says. 

“Thanks,” she says tentatively, but her face lights up. 

“Can I borrow some milk?” 

Dan blinks. “Uh, yes?” 

“Great,” Andrew nods and walks into their kitchen. 

As he’s walking out, carton of milk in hand, Allison yells, “That was pathetic Minyard!” 

“Still counts,” Andrew says, kicking the door closed behind him. 


	33. February 1

One month down, eleven to go. Andrew is thirty-one days closer to Allison either actually giving him twenty grand or admitting both defeat and her inability to pay up. So, new year, new month, new semester, and the first game of all three is coming up tomorrow. 

This is how he finds himself in Abby’s office, opening his mouth wide for her to peer down his throat. 

“You should stop smoking,” she says. 

“I will get right on that.” 

“It’s terrible for you.” 

“Is it? I hadn’t heard.” 

The eyes are next, and then the ears. Abby knows better than to touch him unnecessarily; she’s careful to keep her fingers on the stethoscope and not his skin. When she feels around his throat, she does so clinically and briefly. Her hands are cool and smooth. 

“Well,” she says eventually, stepping back. “You’re good to play tomorrow.” 

“Hmm,” Andrew says. “Maybe you should check again.” 

“Ha,” she says. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” 

Andrew shakes his head firmly. No. Definitely no. 

“Okay,” Abby says. She flips a page on her clipboard up, studies it, says casually, “You’re practicing safe sex?” 

Andrew—Andrew has no words. He blinks at her slowly. 

“Neil made basically that same face at me,” Abby says cheerfully. 

“That is not your concern.” 

“Oh, but it kind of is,” she says. “I’m not going to make any assumptions about your activities or your levels of experience, but preventing pregnancy is not the only—” 

“What did he say?” Andrew interrupts. 

“What?” 

“Neil. What did he say?” 

“He said.” She pauses and clears her throat. “Well. I suppose what he said was not actually related to any kind of medical treatment.” 

“That is not a surprise,” Andrew says. 

“He asked a number of questions.” 

“Questions.” 

“Very detailed questions. Some I had never heard before, frankly.” 

Andrew processes this. Does the Neil-math. Imagines Neil sitting here, his face open, his eyes bright and unblinking, asking Abby detailed questions about gay sex. Satisfied, Andrew smothers the itch at the corner of his mouth and says, “He was fucking with you.” 

“Yes.” Abby smiles. “That is the conclusion I came to.” 

“I would—” Andrew starts, then stops. He frowns. The room is bright and cool, the paper beneath him crinkles, and he feels exposed. “I would never be unsafe. To him.” 

Abby smiles again, softer this time. “I know. He said the same thing.” 


	34. February 2

“You have a game tonight, right?” Bailey asks. 

“Is that a question or are you hoping I’ll be excited about it and keep talking?” 

“Sorry,” Bailey says sheepishly. “I have season tickets.” 

“Where?” 

“Behind you, about four hundred rows back.” 

“It’s your time to waste.” 

“Hardly a waste,” Bailey says. “Though, for the record, I still came when you guys sucked.” 

“So the time wasting is a pattern for you.” 

Bailey waves this off. “Are you going to win tonight?” 

“Did you bet on it? I can throw the game.” 

“No! Fuck, don’t do that.” 

“What’s the spread?” 

“I am _not_ betting on this game. But if I was, I wouldn’t bet against you.” 

“Okay. I can throw it for fun then.” 

“I’m going to tell Neil Josten you said that.” 

Andrew points at them very sternly. “Take that back.” 


	35. February 3

The skinny, stoned looking kid in the ticket box says, “You know it’s in Russian, right?” 

“Yes,” Nicky huffs. “But it has subtitles. Doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” the kid says. “It’s a weird movie.” 

“That is the appeal,” Andrew says. 

“And it’s a sequel,” the kid adds. “Have you seen the first one?” 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Do you have other plans for the theater?” 

“What?” 

“Drugs,” Andrew suggests. “Explosives. Live music.” 

“Jazzercise class?” Neil offers. 

Aaron says, “Remember when Andrew would just tell people to fuck off? I miss those days.” 

“Um,” the kid says. 

“We have seen the first,” Andrew says, keeping his attention on the clerk. “We know it will be weird. We don’t mind that it’s Russian.” 

“Alright,” the kid says skeptically. “If you’re sure.” 

“We are sure,” Andrew says. He hands over money, takes the tickets, decides this interaction needs a little more for it to count. “Have a nice day.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the movie in question is [Day Watch](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Day_Watch_\(film\)).


	36. February 4 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My profound gratitude to @justadreamfox, who's written this weekend in Columbia as I work on another tight deadline.

Andrew snaps awake out of his nightmare. Neil’s breath is heavy and rhythmic against Andrew’s ear - not quite a snore, more a validation of presence, a grounding.

Andrew lays still, giving his heartbeat a stern talking to. It is bright in their room, even with the rain. Probably just past noon. They’d been napping for over an hour, then.

Last night it had been Neil’s nightmares that kept them awake, that had chased them from the bed to the porch, to cradle cigarettes and sit quietly in the night together.

Andrew climbs carefully over Neil, but he still wakes up, blinking impossible eyes at him and raising up on an elbow. There are black circles under his eyes and Andrew presses a palm to Neil’s shoulder to push him back down.

“Stay,” Andrew says firmly.

Neil searches his face for only a moment before giving a small nod and burrowing back into his pillow. Andrew shrugs into a hoodie and swipes a well-worn paperback off his bookshelf before heading downstairs.

The house is silent. Andrew pads into the den and stops in his tracks.

“Hi,” Katelyn says a little too brightly. She’s curled up on one end of the overstuffed couch, a book open in her lap.

Andrew catalogues his options, discards the most tempting ones, and finally nods. “Hello,” he says, sitting down in the armchair farthest from his brother’s cheerleader. “What are you reading?”

Katelyn stares at him, her mouth gaping. Andrew waits. When she doesn’t seem likely to recover soon, he holds up his own novel. “ _Interview with a Vampire_ ,” he says.

Katelyn’s mouth snaps shut, and then, “ _Sense and Sensibility_ ,” she says.

“Jane Austen,” Andrew says. “I have not read that one.”

“It’s my favorite,” Katelyn manages.

“Maybe I will read it,” Andrew offers. “I liked _Mansfield Park_.”

Katelyn was back to gaping at him. “I mean-” she starts and then stops again when Aaron walks into the room.

Aaron looks back and forth between them before narrowing his eyes at Andrew. “What’s going on?”

“Literature discussion,” Andrew says at the same time that Katelyn says, “I have no fucking idea.”

Andrew bops Aaron on the arm with his book on the way of the room. “You might want to fill Katelyn in on the bet,” he tosses over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU also to everyone who's still with me on this one. I am so behind on comments but I appreciate the hell out of you guys and you're definitely keeping me going ♥


	37. February 5 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may never write Katelyn again, @justadreamfox's characterization of her is just so damn good.

Andrew tosses his bag into the trunk next to Neil’s and turns to find Katelyn bouncing on her heels in front of him. She shoves a book at him with a small smile and he looks down to see her copy of _Sense and Sensibility_. 

“I thought you might like to borrow it,” she says, and the look on her face can only be described as determined. 

“Aaron explained the bet,” Andrew says. 

“He did,” Katelyn agrees, her arm steady and still outstretched between them. 

“And you think to take advantage of it,” Andrew concludes. 

“Absolutely,” Katelyn says firmly, and she extends the book another inch towards him. 

Andrew looks at the book again, then back at her face. Aaron stands a little behind his girlfriend, his face wary, and it’s maybe that look more than anything else that makes the decision for him. 

Andrew takes the book. “Impressive,” he says, and he’s a little surprised to find that he actually means it. 

“It’s the wit that I like so much,” Katelyn says through her wide smile. “Austen is just so snarky.” 

Nicky laughs, delighted. “Oh Andrew will love it then. Snarky is his favorite flavor.” Andrew watches Neil hide a grin in his shoulder before opening the passenger side door and sliding out of view. 

“I can switch with Katelyn, ride with Kevin,” Nicky says brightly from the other side of the car. “You know, so you two can continue your book club meeting on the drive.” 

“Fuck off Nicky,” Aaron says, herding Katelyn towards Kevin’s jeep. 


	38. February 6 (willow_bird)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by my BFF [@willow_bird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/willow_bird).

Andrew takes his Monday morning smoke break at the same time, in the same place, every single week. It’s a small alcove tucked between two buildings fashioned a bit like a courtyard, with wrought iron benches and a misplaced patch of grass haphazardly dotted with flowers as if that would detract from the ugliness of the two giant cylindrical standing ashtrays meant for the use of the smoking population so they didn’t toss their cancer trash on the ground. 

One of the best things about this particular smoking spot was the general absence of other smokers. Before this past month, he hadn’t exactly been a conversationalist, and smokers had a terrible tendency of wanting to bond over the fact that they were all purposefully poisoning themselves. 

Today, however, there is another smoker present in Andrew’s alcove. 

Andrew sighs. Normally, he would hover at the edge of the space to dissuade engagement, but he still needs to get his words in. 

“Got a light?” he asks as he pulls a pack of reds out of his coat pocket. To be clear, he does not _need_ a lighter - he _has_ one - but he suspects most people who ask for a light don’t actually need one and only use it as a means to force another smoker into socializing so he is really no different than them. 

Look at him, being normal. Aaron and Nicky would be so goddamn proud. 

Andrew pushes that particular thought away before he has the chance to gag, instead focusing on the man who is actually _humming_ as he ruffles around in his coat pockets for his lighter, his own cigarette limply perched beneath the travesty on his upper lip that was too dark to be that thin and could in no way be considered a mustache. 

_Must be a freshman,_ Andrew thinks to himself as triumph alights in the man’s eyes and he flourishes the procured Bic with far too much grandeur. 

“Sure thing, bro! Here ya go!”

Andrew blinks. _Definitely_ a freshman. 

The freshman tosses him the lighter and Andrew catches it smoothly, lighting his own cigarette as he waits for the inevitable episode of _Smoker Solidarity_ to commence. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“Damn man, I hear we’re supposed to actually get snow next week. Can you believe that? _Snow?_ In _South Carolina!?_ Wicked weird, my man. I dunno how I’ll handle it.”

Andrew takes a deep drag and lets it out on a sigh, tossing the lighter back. “You’ll survive,” he advises. He adds in a shrug so that the freshman knows he is giving reassurance rather than judgement, though he is - in fact - judging him. 

The freshman laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I know. Just figured that coming down here from Chicago would mean getting _away_ from snow, am I right?”

“Snow sucks,” Andrew sympathizes. He’s getting good at this and he isn’t sure how he feels about that. 

“Right on, bro, right on.” The freshman finishes his cigarette and flicks the ember off the dying butt before tossing it into the ashtray. “Alright my man, I’m out.” As he passes Andrew he offers his fist.

Andrew bumps it.


	39. February 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied vomiting

Andrew is at the pharmacy in the middle of the night because Neil and Kevin are so fucking stupid and so goddamned stubborn they could both kill themselves trying to win a breath-holding competition. One right after the other. Neil could watch Kevin get zipped into a body bag and still think, _I bet I could do it._

Whether they’d been refusing to be sick, refusing to admit they were sick, or refusing to admit their so-called “healthier” dinner delivery had fucked them over, the result had been Andrew stepping into the hallway to find Kevin lying pathetically on the floor and pawing at the bathroom door. From inside: violent retching. 

He didn’t even stop to ask what was wrong. He got in the car and drove straight to the drug store. 

Andrew lets the basket hang loosely from his fingers as he assesses the various unexpectedly vague aisle signs. A guy steps out from the between some wearing one of the vests that marks him as an employee. “Hey,” Andrew says.

“How can I help you?”

“Do you have a food poisoning section?”

“Um.”

“Both ends,” Andrew says helpfully. “Are they in the same place.”

“Oh!” the guy says brightly. “Yeah, they’re really close. I’ll show you.”

Somehow, the small store feels like a maze as they work through it to the right department. The guy stops, turns, and makes a showcasing gesture at the rows of bottles. 

“What’s good?” Andrew asks.

“Well, that depends. Kids or adults?”

“They claim to be adults.”

“Okay,” the guy laughs. “We have tablets, chewables, and liquids.”

“Yes,” Andrew says. “I’ll take all three.” 

“If it’s a hangover—” the guy starts.

Andrew interrupts with, “It’s not. It’s two dumb jocks who are going to try to go to the gym in three hours.” 

“Palmetto State?”

“Yep. Exy.” 

“My husband went to Palmetto State on a swimming scholarship. I know your pain. Do you already have fluids for them?”

Keeping track of the inventory of Gatorade and Smart Water in the athlete’s dorm is an impossible task, so Andrew agrees when the guy offers to grab a cart for the drinks while Andrew picks out a few other medicines.

“Don’t let them go to the gym,” the guy says. “It wouldn’t be pretty.” 

“I should,” Andrew says. “Maybe they would learn their lesson.”

They pause, briefly, considering this as a real option. Then, the guy shakes his head and says, “Nah. Probably not.”

“No,” Andrew agrees. Stupid. Stubborn. He hands over his debit card.


	40. February 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: today is the first day I just completely _forgot about_ Small Talk. Whoops!

“They’re not coming,” Andrew says when Wymack looks up, furrows his brow, and starts to open his mouth.

“Are they okay?”

“Food poisoning,” Andrew tells him. “I turned off their alarms.”

“They’re going to be pissed,” Wymack says fondly. 

“That sounds like a them problem.”

“You’re okay, though? You and Nicky?”

“Nicky and I got pizza. We are both fine.”

Wymack hums thoughtfully. He turns his head to look out of his office window, squinting at the few stragglers who are still in the locker room and haven’t made it to the gym yet. “Today’s practice,” he says slowly. “Do you think they should come?”

“No,” Andrew says. He thinks about the dark circles under Neil’s eyes, the general aroma of sickly sweat that still hung around Kevin this morning. “But they will probably try.”

“Alright,” Wymack says easily. “I trust your judgment. I’ll tell them to stay home.” 

“Better you than me," Andrew says. He knocks his knuckles against the door as he walks out.


	41. February 9

“This is stupid,” Neil says sulkily. “Why doesn’t Kevin have to come?”

“Because Kevin can keep food down now,” Andrew says calmly. 

“How do you know? Have you seen him do it?”

“Kevin did not almost pass out and fly off the treadmill this morning.” 

“Kevin sucks.”

“Now,” Andrew tsks. “Don’t pollute the truth with this childish pouting.” 

Neil glares. 

“Do you want to play in the game tonight?” Andrew asks. 

Neil glares harder.

“Then sit,” Andrew says, pointing to the cluster of chairs along the wall of the health center. “And give me your ID.”

He waits patiently in the line, steps up to the window when it’s his turn, and tries to make some kind of polite face at the guy behind the desk. “Hello,” Andrew says. He hands over Neil’s ID. “My friend was sick the night before last. We think it was food poisoning but he still cannot eat and he nearly fainted at the gym this morning.”

The guy peers at Andrew, then the ID, then Neil, once Andrew helpfully points him out. 

“Probably dehydration,” he says. “But we can get him in.”

“Thank you,” Andrew says. He thinks it’s probably a little stiff. “How long will it be?”

“Wellllll,” the clerk says, his eyes moving to the computer screen in the corner of his desk. “We have about a thirty minute wait right now. Or I can schedule you to come back another time.”

Andrew looks at the mutinous set of Neil’s face. “We’ll wait.”

“Great,” the guy says. His hand moves off to the side and then it’s back, holding a bowl which he presents to Andrew. “Help yourself.”

The bowl is...odd. It’s a mix of condom packets and lollipops, a few small packets of gum mixed in. Andrew grabs a couple of lollipops, a few condoms, and bypasses the gum altogether. 

“Thank you,” he says again, for, like, the second time that month.


	42. February 10

“Look in the pantry,” Andrew says. 

“Did,” Kevin insists. “Not there.” 

“Under the bunks.” 

“Not there. You need to drive to the store.” 

“Ask Aaron.” 

“He said to get him some too. _From the store_.” 

“What do we need from the store?” Neil asks, shifting one headphone off his ear. 

“Toilet paper. Andrew is being difficult.” 

“Ah,” Neil says. He puts the headphones back in place. 

If Andrew has to go to the store at 10 on this Saturday morning, he’s going to come back with a veritable mountain of toilet paper. Enough to make a fifth bed in their space. Enough to--oh, shit. He pauses his game and levers himself out of his beanbag, stretching until his spine pops back into alignment. 

“Andrew,” Kevin says. “Are you going to the store?” 

“No.” 

Where he goes, instead, is the 4th floor. Room 412. He knocks and then knocks again, harder, when nobody responds to the first. Eventually, a bleary-eyed freshman opens the door, yawns, and then jerks very quickly awake. 

“Jared,” Andrew says by way of a greeting. “I am here to collect.” 

“Collect?” 

“Unless you have gone through it all already.” 

“Gone through— _oh_. The toilet paper?” 

“Yes. The legendary Kevin Day is whining about his two-ply.” 

“Oh, shit, yeah. Come in.” 

The dorm is very freshman. Standard issue furniture with parent-provided throw pillows and cheap, mass-produced canvases hung crookedly on the wall. In a moment, Jared emerges from the hallway with four or five rolls of toilet paper stacked precariously in his arms. 

“I can’t believe _the_ Kevin Day is going to be—” Jared starts and then stops, apparently realizing where that sentence would have to end. 

“And the infamous Neil Josten,” Andrew says drily. “A story to tell your grandchildren.” 

“Fuck,” Jared says mournfully. “Am I ever going to stop embarrassing myself around you?” 

“Probably not. I do have that effect on people.” 

“Great. Fantastic.” 

“Listen,” Andrew says as he plucks the rolls one by one out of Jared’s arms. “You need anything, you know where to find us.” 

“Wow,” Jared says. Andrew turns to leave, but Jared keeps talking. “Yeah, thanks man, I will—but, wait, do I? Know where to find you?” 

“It isn't difficult,” Andrew says over his shoulder. “Look for the room everyone else is avoiding.” 


	43. February 11

Andrew settles into the slick black leather of the chair and tips his head forward so that the stylist can snap the protective cape closed at the back. He’d found Jazzmin his first year at PSU—a short, round lesbian with multiple piercings and a fondness for 90s fashion that had endeared her to him immediately. 

“Is that him?” Jazzmin asks, stage-whispering and darting her eyes significantly towards Neil, sitting uncomfortably in the waiting area. 

“It is,” Andrew says. 

“You finally convinced him?” 

“I told him that I would challenge you in hand-to-hand combat if you so much as scraped his ear.” 

She laughs, delighted, the bright sound bursting through the room. On the couch, Neil looks up suspiciously. 

“Did you really?” she asks. 

“No. But it was my backup plan.” 

“Are you going to micromanage me when I cut his hair?” 

Andrew considers. On the one hand….he _does_ like to be in control of shit. On the other, he trusts Jazzmin not to lead Neil astray. Were it some random strip-mall chain salon, he’d probably have to stand guard to prevent a blue fauxhawk from appearing atop Neil’s head, but here, he thinks he can let go. 

He says, “I will not. I leave him to your tender mercies.” 

“Oh, good,” she says. He catches her wicked grin in the mirror. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him.” 

On the couch, Neil’s eyes narrow into deeper suspicion. 

“Right, sorry. Act normal. Are we just touching you up today?” Jazzmin asks, working her hands through his hair. “Or do you want to go shorter on the sides?” 


	44. February 12

“I love it,” Allison says gleefully. “It’s so soft.” 

“How can it be soft if it’s practically shaved?” Neil asks. 

“It’s not shaved,” Allison corrects. “It’s an undercut. And it looks good.” 

Andrew watches her fingernails scrape through the short, dark red hair on the sides of Neil’s head. He doesn’t begrudge her the impulse; he’d spent two episodes of some dumb medical drama doing it himself, scratching lightly at Neil’s scalp, finger-combing the longer hair on top, teasing just his fingertips with the clean, crisp ends on the sides. 

“You are welcome,” Andrew says. 

“Honestly,” she says. “I mean, fuck you, but _thank you_. It was like watching a Victorian mansion fall to ruin.” 

“A classic car rust in the yard,” Andrew agrees. 

“Hello,” Neil says, sounding fond. “I am sitting right here.” 

Allison halts the stroke of her fingers and sits up a little straighter, looking around inquisitively. “Did you hear something?” 

“No,” Andrew says. “Nothing at all.” 


	45. February 13

“Honestly?” Aaron says. “It kind of pisses me off.” 

Bee takes a calm sip from her mug and sets it down. “Can you tell us why?” 

“It’s just—it’s kind of—I want to say not fair, but he’ll make fun of me.” 

Andrew keeps quiet. Bee sends him a quick look; he shakes his head once in response. 

“Tell him,” Bee says. 

“I won’t make fun of you,” Andrew tells Aaron. 

“Look, it’s just. It was _years_ of him not talking to me. Fucking years where it was all I wanted and he just...couldn’t.” Aaron shoots a glance over at Andrew at this. Andrew nods. Keep going. 

“Except apparently it wasn’t couldn’t. It was _wouldn’t_. It pisses me off that he was capable of it the whole time and just...refused.” 

“Hmm,” Bee says. “Andrew?” 

Andrew shrugs his shoulders jerkily. There’s a lean glass foal within his eyeline. He keeps it in the center of his gaze and tries to process what Aaron’s saying. It doesn’t feel right. But he’s not sure where he can intervene and make Aaron see it another way. 

“Were you?” Bee asks gently. “Capable of it?” 

“No,” Andrew says. Flat. And again, “No.” 

“Why do you think you are now?” Bee asks. Next to Andrew, unseen, Aaron shifts in his chair. 

To Andrew, the answer seems obvious. “The same reasons we are doing this,” he says, gesturing at the room. “Because we are doing this.” 

After a long moment of silence, Bee gently prompts, “Aaron?” 

“I forget sometimes,” Aaron says quietly. “Maybe. That we’re--better. That things are better now. For us. But also, I guess, for him.” 

“Do you agree, Andrew?” Bee asks. “That things are better now?” 

Andrew says, “Yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Andrew fulfilled his obligations before therapy today.


	46. February 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy day that may or may not be of note to you, everyone!

Valentine’s Day is a study in compromises. The first of these is that Andrew and Neil are admitting not only that there _is_ such a thing as Valentine’s Day, but also that it is occurring today, and further that they are acknowledging it, however limited in scope. 

The second is that Valentines-themed snacks will be allowed in the spread for the evening. 

The third is that the movies they watch must include couples (Nicky) but must only be in the genres of thrillers or horror (Andrew). 

“ _Fatal Attraction_?” Neil asks, reading the label on one of the Netflix disks that had arrived, right on time, the day before. 

“I refuse to watch that,” Kevin says. “It has animal cruelty in it.” 

“And vaginas,” Nicky says. 

“That is _Basic Instinct_ ,” Andrew corrects. 

“What’s this one?” Neil asks, flipping another disk over. “ _Heathers_?” 

Faux-grimly, Nicky says, “That’s the one I’m worried about you and Andrew watching.” 

“I’ve seen it,” Andrew reminds him. 

“Yeah, but _alone_. Not with the human version of speed here.” 

“What does speed have to do with anything?” Neil asks. 

“No, not, like--the _drug_ speed, okay?” 

“We’re watching _My Bloody Valentine_ first,” Kevin says decisively. “It’s perfectly on theme.” 

“The man has a point,” Nicky says. “Also, Neil should see the glory that is Jensen Ackles. The man is fine.” 

“Not his type,” Andrew says. 

“Does Neil have a type?” Nicky shoots back. “Other than one specific Minyard twin?” 

“Maybe J.D.” 

“In _Heathers_?” 

“Who’s J.D.?” 

“The reason I’m worried about you and Andrew _getting ideas_.” 

Andrew plucks a mini cupcake from its container and shoves it entirely in his mouth, mumbling around it, “Too much effort.” 

“Close your mouth when you chew,” Kevin says, disgusted. 

“Too much effort,” Andrew says once he’s swallowed. “They were trying too hard.” 

“To...murder their classmates?” 

“Oh,” Neil says, flipping the disk over again. “Why bother?” 

“Because they were awful,” Nicky says. 

“Most people are,” Neil says. He drops that disk and pokes around at the pile until he comes up with Kevin’s choice. “Here we go. _My Bloody Valentine._ With Jason Ankles.” 

“ _Jensen Ackles_ ,” Nicky corrects. 

“Great,” Neil says. “Andrew and I call beanbags.” 

“Both of them?” 

“Yeah,” Neil says. “We’re going to shove them together.” 

“And talk shit about you during the movie,” Andrew adds. 

“You do that every day,” Kevin says pointedly. “What makes this special?” 

Andrew plucks another little mound of frosting from the carton and holds it towards Kevin. “We have cupcakes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Look I was stoned when I wrote this and forgot that it’s set 2 years before Jason Ankles stars in My Bloody Valentine, so let’s just call this one of my allotted anachronisms?


	47. February 15

Andrew pokes through the post-Valentines clearance bins, shoving aside the human-head-sized Hershey’s Kisses and the _Blues Clues_ themed valentine cards for elementary school kids. There are a few boxes with little chocolate dudes in it that say “The Perfect Man.” 

He grabs one of those for Nicky. 

Finally, near the bottom of the bin he hits paydirt: a cluster of absurd reusable water bottles. One of them is a sort of dark red with gold letters that read _Wine is my Valentine_. Another one, bright pink, says _All You Need is Love_. 

“Could you hand me that one?” a voice says. 

Andrew looks up to see a man, early 50s, expensive shirt, perfectly coiffed hair. 

“The wine one,” the man clarifies. “If you’re not going to get it.” 

Andrew fishes it back out and hands it over. 

“For my sister,” the man explains. 

“Good idea,” Andrew says. “Give your single, alcoholic sister a clearance valentine’s day gift a day late.” 

The man barks out a sharp, shocked laugh. 

Andrew spots another bottle. This one is a sort of metallic rainbow gradient. It says _Love Potion_ in looping black script. Terrible. Perfect. Andrew snags it. 

“And you?” the man says. “I imagine you’d need a love potion if you’re also digging around in the clearance bins for the gifts no one else wanted.” 

“Who says it’s a gift,” Andrew observes mildly. “Maybe I do actual witchcraft.” 

The man takes a half-step back and scans Andrew from the battered toes of his boots to the silver ring that loops through the cartilage of his ear. The guy smirks a little, satisfied, and says, “Who’s the guy?” 

Andrew raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Oh, honey,” the guy says. “My gaydar is a precision weapon.” 

“This,” Andrew says, lifting the bottle. “Is hideous.” 

“Yes.” 

“Carrying it in public would humiliate any self-respecting person.” 

“Probably,” the guy says, sounding amused now. 

“Ergo,” Andrew says. 

“Ergo you can buy the most ridiculous option, give it to him a day late, and have it be ironic.” 

Andrew internally cringes a bit at the accusation of affected irony, but, the guy’s not on the wrong track. He says, “He has no shame. He is cheap as hell. He does not care at all about the opinions of other people.” 

“Ah,” the man says. “He gets a practical gift. You get endless amusement.” 

“Yep.” 

The man smiles at this, wide and sincere. “Sounds like a good thing you’ve got going.” 


	48. February 16 (justadreamfox)

The NCSU striker crouches at mid court. Her bio runs on a ticker tape through Andrew’s head: Julia Rivers, number 76, freshman starting striker, right handed, five-foot-six. 

Andrew adjusts his grip minutely. 

The court is empty, just Andrew and Julia and a silent stadium waiting on bated breath. She bounces the ball once, twice, then pushes off to her left, just like she’s done all night. She takes four long strides, just like she’s done all night. She looks right at Andrew, not giving anything away, just like she’s done all night.

Andrew looks right back, watching her face intently through her clear mask. 

Three more short steps then  _ boom _ : she pulls the left side of her bottom lip between her teeth and shoots. Andrew’s racquet is already there, top left corner. He defends his goal easily and just like that they win, 7-6. 

The Foxes storm the court, Neil making a beeline for him with Kevin not far behind. 

Andrew pulls off his helmet and steps to the Wolfpack striker. “You bite your lip,” he says.

“Holy shit,” she says, eyes wide. “Andrew Minyard.”

“Well I am not Aaron,” he says.

“My teammates said you don’t talk to anyone.”

Andrew ignores that, waits until Kevin is in hearing range and says again, “You bite your lip. Right before you shoot.” Neil crashes into his side, and Kevin starts sputtering behind him. 

“Oh. Fuck,” she says. “So you always know when I’m gonna take my shot.” 

Andrew points at her in acknowledgement. 

“Thanks man!” Julia gifts him with a brilliant smile before running off to join her team.

“Did you really just give a tip to our rivals?” Kevin finally manages. 

Andrew shrugs. “I thought you’d be happy I’m taking an interest in exy.” 

“I-” Kevin starts, at a loss. 

Neil stifles a snort of laughter and grabs him by the arm, towing him to the celebration at mid court. 

Andrew retrieves his racquet and thinks that maybe if he did like exy at all, shoot offs would be his favorite. 

  
  



	49. February 17 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are stuck with me until [likearecord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likearecord/profile) gets her power and internet back...  
> xoxo - [justadreamfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox/)

Andrew is not taken by surprise often, at least not in Fox Tower. The paths he takes are well worn. He knows where to find Neil and his family, where to do his laundry, the three closest exits, and how to trip the lock on the roof access door. Familiar. Nothing much happens in these halls that is unexpected. 

So, Andrew hesitates when he comes down from the roof, when he sees Renee pressing someone he doesn’t recognize up against the closed door of her dorm room. He reaches for a knife before it registers that the quiet noises Renee and the stranger are making are not ones of distress. 

Andrew is. Surprised. 

He closes the door to the stairwell loudly enough that the two of them startle apart. Renee doesn’t blush, but the girl she was kissing does. 

“Oh Andrew,” Renee says with a smile. 

“This is your Andrew?” the girl next to her asks.

Andrew almost raises an eyebrow at that and looks her up and down. She’s about Neil’s height, and has a subtle accent he can’t quite place. Dark hair cut short, freckles, ripped jeans. Andrew figures he could take her in a fight. 

“Yes,” he answers with a step closer, ignoring the fact that Renee’s smile grows brighter. 

“Andrew this is Lena. Lena, Andrew. I have been wanting you two to meet,” Renee says. 

Andrew nods and stares Lena down. “Where would you hole up in the zombie apocalypse?”

Lena doesn’t skip a beat. “Fast zombies or slow zombies?”

“Fast, obviously,” Andrew says.

“A small island, if I could get there,” she says promptly. “Mediterranean preferably. I could fish for food, grow some crops.”   
  
“You assume zombies cannot swim,” Andrew counters.

“A reasonable assumption, as they cannot hold air in their lungs to be buoyant,” Lena says. 

Andrew hums. 

“Did I pass?” Lena asks Renee. 

Renee huffs a little laugh. “You’ll be late if you don’t hurry.”

“Oh right. Later, Ren,” Lena says before kissing Renee smack dab on the lips right in front of him. “Nice to meet you Andrew,” she says over her shoulder as she heads for the elevator. 

“So,” Andrew says when she’s gone.

“So,” Renee repeats serenely.

“Playing on my team now?”

“I like to keep my options open.”

The corner of Andrew’s lip twitches. “Okay, Joan of sexy.”

Renee laughs, her brown eyes twinkling. “Spar tomorrow?”

“Yes, in the morning while Neil’s running.”

“Perfect. Night Andrew.”

“Night,  _ Ren.” _


	50. February 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it is me, your friendly neighborhood record player. I have survived the frostpocalypse in Houston and I shall never again take for granted my electricity or the ability to drink tap water. 
> 
> Let us all bow in idolatrous worship of @justadreamfox.

The intense beams of orange light from the setting sun slant just so across the horizon, piercing the dorm’s windows and drilling themselves into Andrew’s pupils relentlessly. He tries covering his eyes with his forearm, but that isn’t comfortable. He tries closing them against the light, but it floods the thin skin of his eyelids and illuminates the inside of his head. There’s a pillow half underneath him that he could put over his face if he could get to it, but Neil is draped half on top of him, boneless and loose and sheltered from the insistent sunset by virtue of having his face pressed against Andrew’s ribs. 

“Stop moving so much,” Neil mumbles, disgruntled. 

“Light,” Andrew replies. 

Neil gropes on the floor blindly until he comes up with an abandoned hoodie--he tosses it gently upwards so that it hits Andrew’s face in a soft, detergent-scented wad. Andrew drapes it over the top half of his face, finally blocking out the assault. He’s sore, a little, everywhere--they’d gone hard in the game on Friday and Renee had kicked his ass back and forth across the state a few times in their sparring session that afternoon. Apparently, getting laid was very good for Renee’s killer instincts. 

“Dinner soon,” Neil mumbles. 

“Uh huh.” 

“Out or in?” 

“Fuck.” 

“In, then,” Neil answers. Andrew can feel Neil’s mouth move against his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Gross. “I can order something. Or get the girls to feed us.” 

Andrew makes a noise that sounds, he thinks, something like, “Blrngh.” 

He’s spent too much of this day on his couch. Lunch, he distantly remembers, was a protein bar and some raw vegetables Kevin dropped on their laps at some point. After that, Andrew had slept somewhere between one and four hours--with a gun to his head he’d guess two, based on the light and the degree to which his t-shirt has stuck to him with the sweat of the overly-warm air pounding out of the heater and the approximately three-hundred-degree menace who’s been plastered to him the whole time. 

“Phone,” Andrew orders. He holds up his hand, palm ready to receive the phone, and waits until Neil drops the smooth plastic into his grip. “Dan,” Andrew says this time, keeping his pam open. 

Neil, huffing a laugh, retrieves it, opens it, and presses a couple of buttons. When he hands it back, Andrew presses it to his ear. 

“Neil!” Dan says, tinny at the other end of the line. 

“Not this time,” Andrew says. 

“Oh, hey Andrew.” 

“How are you?” Andrew asks. 

“Fine,” she says, amused. “Should we talk about the weather?” 

“No, we have more important topics.” 

“Such as?” 

“What are you doing for dinner?” 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dan says, her voice dropping into something more in Andrew’s range. “Don’t remind me.” 

“Neil will not shut up about how hungry he is.” 

Neil, who hasn’t said a word about hunger, mutters something darkly amused about the rumblings of Andrew’s stomach. 

“I _guess_ we could go down to the caf,” Dan says reluctantly. “Or we could—” 

She cuts off when someone else starts talking in the background. Andrew thinks he hears Renee’s voice, and then Allison shouts something inaudible, and then Dan says, “Renee says she’ll make fajita stuff but everyone would have to come here to eat it.” 

Andrew tugs at Neil’s hair questioningly and then again when Neil just rubs his face against Andrew’s shirt some more. 

“Yeah,” Neil says. 

“Kevin’s at the library,” Andrew tells Dan. “We’ll let him know.” 

“Renee says half an hour.” 

“Half an hour,” Andrew confirms. And then, because Nicky would be devastated if he didn’t, he adds, “We will bring the hot sauce.” 


	51. February 19

“Zombie guy!” the cashier says when Andrew bumps the door open. His gesture is welcoming and expansive. Andrew believes he may be on marijuana. 

“Guy with no shotgun,” Andrew replies drily. 

“Camels?” 

“Yes,” Andrew says. And then, “After these, I am going to quit.” 

“Great, man,” the guy says. “You’ll have to tell me how it’s going next time.” 

They stare at each other. Andrew allows one corner of his mouth to twitch up in acknowledgement. 

“So I was thinking,” the guy says as he turns to grab Andrew’s preferred cigarettes from the rack. “Everybody plans for the zombies, but. Do you know what they _don’t_ plan for?” 

“Aliens,” Andrew guesses. 

“Oh, good one. But no, vampires.” 

“What would I do if we were attacked by vampires?” 

“Yeah.” 

“En masse or one-on-one? Do I know that they are vampires?” 

The cashier guy laughs. “I think you’d figure it out pretty fucking quick.” 

“Stay in at night, I suppose,” Andrew says. “Not invite any strangers over.” 

“Legit, legit.” The cash register beeps as the guy zaps the pack’s bar code over the scanner. “What if it was a whole bunch of them one night, out in public?” 

“Hmmm,” Andrew says. He props his hip against the counter and considers. “Church? Italian restaurant?” 


	52. February 20 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to your first Small Talk guest writer residency! Brought to you by me (Zan) and Kevin Day (that's Queen Day to you). You'll see some more of your fav fic authors popping up for their own week-long takeovers throughout the year. Buckle up buttercups, we're just getting started! - xoxo [justadreamfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox/)

Kevin holds the grocery cart steady while Andrew climbs in and settles cross-legged in the big metal basket, propping his elbows up on the sides and digging out his iPod. Neil shoots towards the produce with the grocery list they actually remembered to bring this time in hand, leaving Kevin to push. 

A middle aged blonde gives Andrew a look, but Andrew doesn’t notice, so Kevin unleashes a few watts of his media smile, turning her disapproving frown into one of confusion. Kevin winks for good measure and the woman blushes and looks away. 

“I saw that,” Neil says, dropping a bag of mandarin oranges and a giant bunch of bananas at Andrew’s feet before skipping off again. 

Andrew finally manages to untangle his earbuds, and Kevin has to lean down so he and Andrew can each pop one in. They had been working their way through Andrew’s music for weeks to create the perfect running playlist for Neil. 

“Too slow,” Kevin says to the first song - The Chemical Brothers he thinks. Andrew skips it, and the next one is bouncy. “That one is good,” Kevin says, crossing his arms to lean on the cart as he rolls Andrew down aisle two.

“Black Eyed Peas,” Andrew says. 

Neil drops an armful of ramen packets and mac-n-cheese boxes in the cart and frowns. “You want me to get black eyed peas?” he asks. 

“No,” Andrew says and shoos him with a hand flap. 

“More like that,” Kevin says, swinging the cart as close as he can to the granola bars. He scans the back of a box and Andrew puts on something even bouncier. “Yes, that,” Kevin says, switching for a brand with less sugar. 

Neil tosses in four different boxes of cereal. 

“You really shouldn’t eat Lucky Charms,” Kevin says to the back of Andrew’s head. 

“Eminem?” Andrew suggests, clicking on  _ The Real Slim Shady _ and sliding his Lucky Charms out of Kevin’s reach. 

“Oh, yes, that has good bounce,” Kevin hums, bopping his head. “He’ll think the lyrics are funny.” 

In aisle four Neil drops cans of soup, boxes of dried pasta, and jars of sauce next to Andrew, and Kevin approves Outkast and The Offspring. In aisle seven Neil dumps a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread into the cart, and Andrew adds Missy Elliot and Green Day. 

“Milk and we’re done,” Neil says. 

“And ice cream,” Andrew reminds them. 

“And ice cream,” Kevin agrees. They roll through the dairy case, snagging a gallon of 2%, and on to the freezer section to find the Ben & Jerry’s section occupied, an exhausted looking man rolling a pint of vanilla in his hands. 

Andrew pops out his earbud. “Not that one,” he tells him. 

The man looks up, and Kevin catalogues the dark circles under his eyes, the odd array of items in his basket. Kevin wonders not for the first time what kind of deranged gang they look like: scars and face tattoos and a tiny goth in a shopping cart. 

Andrew rolls up to his knees and points. “Phish Food is a good bet. Or Half Baked.” 

The man frowns at the freezer. “She likes caramel,” he says, then looks back at Andrew hopefully. 

“Karamel Sutra,” Andrew says. Neil hops forward and grabs it for the man. “Get her some marshmallow fluff to go on top,” Andrew suggests. 

The man nods and smiles gratefully. “Thanks dude.” 

“Fluff’s on aisle seven,” Neil adds. When he’s gone Neil grabs one each of Phish Food, Peanut Butter Cup, Mint Cookie, and a lone Coffee Haagen Dazs for Kevin. “Does it count as small talk if you just wanted him to get out of the way?” Neil asks Andrew as he dumps the pints of ice cream in his lap. 

“It counts,” Kevin says, steering Andrew and the cart towards check out. 


	53. February 21 (justadreamfox)

“Ça va, Kevin.”

Kevin startles a bit at that voice, sultry and soft and familiar. He slides a finger to the middle of the paragraph on the fall of the Ottoman Empire before blinking up at Ava. It is disorienting to see her out of context, hand propped up on the heavy library table inches from his own. Her hair is twisted in some complicated long braid that drapes over her shoulder, and Kevin briefly indulges in the memory of those silky black strands between his fingers.

“Ça va bien,” Kevin says. 

“Salut, Ava,” Neil pipes up from the end of the table. Ava throws a  _ salut  _ his way without taking her grey eyes off Kevin. Nicky is staring at Ava with a gleeful look on his face, clearly about to open his mouth, and that is really not what Kevin wants to happen right now.

“Demain c'est ton anniversaire, non?” she asks him. 

Kevin nods. 

“Alors...vais-je te voir ce week-end?” she murmurs

“Hi Ava,” Andrew cuts in abruptly. “I’m Andrew. This is Aaron, and Nicky.” Aaron inclines his head and Nicky smiles brilliantly. 

“Hello Andrew, Aaron, and Nicky,” Ava says, amused. 

“How do you know these disasters?” Andrew gestures at Neil and Kevin. 

“I am the TA for advanced French literature.” She winks. Neil leans a little closer to Andrew, and if Kevin didn’t know better he’d say he is staking a claim. Nicky starts to open his mouth again and Kevin is suddenly rather desperate to separate his occasional fuck buddy from his family by any means possible. 

“Andrew and I will be in Austin this weekend,” he says. “So, no.”

“Recruiting trip,” Andrew adds helpfully, his arms crossed over his chest. He is looking at Kevin and not Ava. Neil is smirking into his notebook. 

“So, Ava-,” Nicky starts. 

“I’ll see you in class next week,” Kevin cuts in loudly. Kevin is, as a rule, not very loud off of the exy court, which might be why every set of eyes around his table snap to him in that moment, and someone from two tables over shushes him dramatically. 

Ava stares at him for a moment, smiles, then taps a few fingers on his arm to make a point. “Sans doute,” she murmurs quietly, then, “pleasure to meet you all,” to the rest of the table, and she is gone. 

Nicky leans forward and tugs on Kevin’s book when he tries to go back to his paragraph. “Who was that gorgeous creature?”

“And more importantly, why was that so awkward?” Aaron adds. 

“Just a friend,” Kevin says, ignoring Andrew’s gaze boring a hole in his cheek.

“Bullshit,” Nicky crows, and they are shushed loudly from a different table this time. 

“Nicky. Leave it. He said just a friend,” Andrew says. 

“Yeah, friend with benefits,” Nicky mutters. 

Aaron snorts softly, and Kevin buries his face back in his history textbook. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick and dirty translations:
> 
> Ça va and salut = "how are you/i'm fine" (informal)
> 
> “Demain c'est ton anniversaire, non?” = "it's your birthday tomorrow isn't it?"
> 
> “Alors...vais-je te voir ce week-end?” = "so... will i see you this weekend?"
> 
> “Sans doute” = "of course"


	54. February 22 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Kevin Day.

Kevin knows he’s a good mimic. He likes to think he’s getting better at latching onto the right things to imitate. Fake it till you make it, they say. It sounds dumb, maybe, but he’d found his courage by first pretending it was already there, by watching Neil. Mimicking him. 

Kevin doesn’t remember when that courage started to become a real thing instead of a mantle he tugged tightly around his shoulders each time he walked off the exy court. But it is _his_ now. No longer a mantle but something hard won and intrinsic, wrapped around his spine and his bones in a way that cannot be stolen from him. 

And it isn’t just his courage he’s found. 

Kevin pays attention. Watches. Picks out the pieces of Andrew and Neil, of Wymack and Abby - of all the Foxes, really. Elements of himself reflected in the mirror of a family he never thought he’d get to have. He takes the bits that look like him, tries them on, tests them out, keeps the ones that feel right to spackle himself together. 

So by the time this birthday rolls around, Kevin has spent a lot of time considering the things that make him Kevin Day, but he’s yet to really understand what Kevin Day _as a friend_ looks like. 

The Foxes, though, are determined to show him. 

After practice they corner him in the lounge and bombard him with birthday presents: a year long subscription to his favorite exy streaming site from Dan and Matt, a book from Aaron that Kevin had mentioned he wanted to read, an “Exy is Sexy” t-shirt from Nicky, a gift certificate for a sports massage from Renee, and a set of ten tickets to see the Charlotte Bobcats play the New York Wolverines next week. 

The Wolverines are Kevin’s favorite team.

“This is too much,” Kevin says, looking back and forth between the tickets and Allison once he realizes what he’s holding. 

“It’s exactly enough,” Allison counters with a hair flip. “Besides, it’s not just for you. We’re all going with you, obviously.”

Kevin is a little overwhelmed. 

“I’m not sure why this had to be a _thing,”_ Kevin says to Neil as they settle at the end of a very long table at Kevin’s favorite Greek restaurant. Abby and Coach and Bee take up residence on the other end, with the rest of the Foxes - and Katelyn - filling in the seats between.

“Compromise,” Neil says. 

“What?” Kevin asks.

“Compromise,” Neil repeats, flipping open the menu. “Dan and Matt wanted to throw a party in the dorms. Andrew talked them out of it. Abby and Coach wanted to have everyone over and do a cookout. Andrew talked them out of that too.”

Kevin considers this. It’s a lot of Andrew talking on his behalf. “Did he do that for the bet?”

“Stop asking stupid questions,” Andrew says into his ear as he settles next to him.

“I just don’t get it,” Kevin says.

“They’re Foxes and it’s your birthday,” Andrew says with a shrug, like that explains it.

Neil sighs. “Andrew knew you’d hate a dorm party, and if we went to Abby’s we’d end up there all night, which wouldn’t be a bad thing but-”

“But,” Andrew cuts in. “Neil assumed you wouldn’t want to skip night practice on your birthday.”

Kevin lights up at that and Andrew rolls his eyes and cuts a look at Neil, who makes a _see, I told you_ face.

“Junkies, the both of you,” Andrew says. 

Dinner is good. Kevin indulges in the moussaka, instead of his usual grilled chicken. He eats his carrot cake, and doesn’t blush when Nicky insists that they all sing happy birthday loudly and publicly. The quiet of the court that night feels like home, and he smiles privately to himself when Andrew gives his full attention to their drills and to his goal, which is a gift all in itself. 

Kevin is perfectly tired and satisfied when he crawls into the back of Andrew’s car at the end of the night, and has just tilted his head back against the leather of the seats when a bundle of fabric hits him in the face. 

“Happy Birthday,” Neil says, twisted in his seat to see Kevin's reaction. Andrew watches him in the rearview, engine idling as he waits. Kevin shakes out the hoodie. It’s a deep ruby red, soft and thick, with the Trojan gold helmet on the front. He turns it around and lets out a startled laugh when he finds _KNOX_ in giant gold letters and under that _01._

"We know you have one already," Neil says.

"Pink shirts," Andrew says drily.

"But this one is signed," Neil says with a smirk. Kevin squints in the dark of the Maserati and can just make out the slash of sharpie and Jeremy's messy scrawl in the center of the zero.

“Assholes,” Kevin says fondly. “I love it.”


	55. February 23 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Neil's Running Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7s0RSvSmvl40F4aBMQyuOj?si=DEo3qf62T8-5ZAG21xSV7w/)

“Did you pack?” Andrew asks.

“Mmmm.” Kevin has one ear pod in, simultaneously downloading the playlist they’d finished into Neil’s iPod Shuffle and watching clips of Mishe Chaplin locking down the goal at his game last Friday. “Come look at these clips from Mishe’s last game,” Kevin says without looking up.

“No,” Andrew says. “Pack.”

“He shut down the goal,” Kevin says. 

“Pack,” Andrew repeats.

“You haven’t watched these new clips though,” Kevin says, struggling to keep the frustration out of his voice. “He’s really good.”

“I know,” Andrew says drily. “We would not be flying out to recruit him tomorrow if he wasn’t.”

“Fine,” Kevin says, pausing the clip. The playlist had finished, so Kevin closes out iTunes and tugs the cord loose. “I’ll pack, then you watch these clips with me.”

“You have no bargaining power here, Day. I do not actually care if you walk on the plane tomorrow morning with your spare pair of boxers in your hand.” 

Kevin blinks at that. “I left my duffle in Columbia.”

Andrew’s sigh is dramatic. He pushes the door open, pokes his head out. Props on the frame and waits. Kevin has the odd impression of a crocodile with his jaw cracked wide, setting the trap for an unsuspecting egret. 

“Oh, Allison,” Andrew says. 

“Oh, Andrew,” Kevin hears her sing-song back to him. 

Egret located.

“Kevin is hoping to borrow your duffle.”

“The Louis Vuitton?” 

Egret intrigued.

“The Prada,” Andrew says. 

There’s a pause and then, “Good taste. Come on.”

Egret captured.

Andrew disappears and Kevin barely has time to restart the game clips before he’s back.

“Two birds one stone,” Andrew says, dropping a bubblegum pink leather bag on the desk. 

Kevin frowns at the  _ really fucking pink _ bag, but keeps his mouth shut when Andrew swipes the iPod Shuffle off his desk and sweeps out of the room. He hears the roof access door bang closed shortly after, and well, yeah, he’s not surprised Neil and Andrew want some alone time before they are separated for two days. 

Kevin maximizes his media player and starts the clips again. He’ll pack later. 


	56. February 24 (justadreamfox)

“Kevin.”

“Kevin.”

“Kevin.”

Kevin’s brain is lazily considering coming online and figuring out how to reconnect to his mouth when suddenly a firm grip wraps around his ankle and pulls him half off the bed.

“Fuck, I’m up!”

“Are you?” Andrew’s reply comes, amused. 

“Ummmhmm,” Kevin mumbles, already slipping back into sleep. 

“Kevin.”

“Kevin.”

“Kevin.”

“UNNGH,” Kevin half shouts, as one more hard tug lands him on the floor. He vaguely registers a laugh that does not belong to Andrew or Neil and blinks one eye open. 

“I didn’t know this was still an issue,” Matt says. From Kevin’s perspective on the floor Matt is standing impossibly tall next to Andrew, grinning down at him.    
  
“Not a morning person,” Kevin grumbles.

“No shit,” Matt says.

“Six am flight was not my idea,” Andrew reminds him, shouldering the bright pink bag and his own black duffle, before turning to Matt. “If you prop him up against the kitchen wall and hand him a coffee, there is a fifty-fifty chance he won’t fall asleep standing and spill it all over himself.”

“That was one time,” Kevin says, trying to peel his other eye open.

“I’ve got this,” Matt says affably, hooking his hands around Kevin’s wrists. 

“Where’s Neil?” Kevin asks, a little dizzy after Matt hauls him bodily to his feet like he weighs nothing. 

“Running,” Andrew tosses over his shoulder. “Matt signed up for morning duty.”

“I’m not a child,” Kevin says, even as he sways sideways and collides with Matt.

“You were right Andrew, totally worth it,” Matt says, laughing, and Kevin reminds himself to glare at both of them as soon as he can convince his eyes to open at the same time. 


	57. February 25 (justadreamfox)

This is not going how Kevin planned.

Though, he should know better by now. If the Foxes want to recruit you it’s not just because you play well. There’s a profile that Coach insists on. Kevin gets it - he does. Without his dad’s agenda, the Foxes wouldn’t have Andrew in goal, and Kevin wouldn’t have Neil at his side. 

But. 

Miche stares at him, stoic, arms crossed over his broad chest. Coach has wrapped up his spiel, Miche has said nothing, and Kevin is having flashbacks to when the Ravens tried to recruit Andrew. 

Except. 

Miche cuts his eyes briefly to Andrew again, who is leaning against the bleacher railing, face impassive and arms crossed in the mirror image of Miche’s. The talented high school goalie hasn’t been able to stop his gaze from drifting to Andrew several times over the last few minutes, poking holes in the credibility of his own stubborn sullenness. 

Miche looks at Andrew with tentative hope flickering just in the corner of his eye. Kevin knows what that feels like. He makes a decision that Andrew may or may not stab him for later. 

“Coach Wymack and I are going to discuss some things for a minute,” Kevin says haughtily, grabbing his dad by the elbow, and shooting a significant look at Andrew. Andrew’s answering glare could melt stone, but he doesn’t move to follow them. 

“The fuck you doing,” Wymack asks when Kevin has steered them far enough away. 

“Look,” Kevin says, tilting his head back towards Miche and Andrew. They are on the move, walking a lap around the outer court, and Andrew is  _ talking. _

Miche’s arms are crossed, his face still stoic, but his head is tilted the slightest bit towards Andrew. He is  _ listening.  _

“Well I’ll be damned,” Wymack says. They watch them in silence. Miche eventually uncrosses his arms, and the two of them part as they pass the locker room. Before he disappears, Miche looks up, catches Kevin’s eye. Nods. 

Andrew stops at Coach Peterson’s side and waits, his hands shoved in his pockets. Kevin can’t hear them, but he sees the high school coach talking, sees Andrew say one thing, and then he walks away, the coach staring after him, mouth dropped open. 

“What did you say to Miche?” Kevin asks in the car ride back to the airport. Andrew hasn’t said a word since they left the high school, and Kevin can’t take it anymore. “Will he sign?”

“I don't know what he will do Kevin,” Andrew says.

“But what did you say to him?”

The silence stretches for so long that Kevin doesn’t think Andrew is going to answer, but then Andrew shrugs minutely and turns to look out the window. “I told him it was safe. With us,” he says finally. 

“You talked to Peterson too,” Wymack points out. 

“Yes.”

“What did you say?” Kevin prods.

Andrew has his pack of cigarettes out, is tapping them idly against his leg. “I suggested he arrange for a social worker to show up unannounced at Miche’s foster home,” Andrew says, all inflection gone from his tone.

“Fuck,” Wymack says. 

Andrew doesn’t say anything else. Not on the plane, not in the jeep, not in the elevator up to their floor in Fox Tower. 

Kevin knows him well enough to let him be, and to text Neil to be waiting for Andrew on the roof.


	58. February 26 (justadreamfox)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Last day of me and Kevin...for now. ;) Thanks for sticking with me and for all your lovely comments! xoxo - [justadreamfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox/)

Kevin waits for Andrew outside of his sociology class, tapping his foot impatiently. 

When he finally appears there’s a brunette at his side talking animatedly. Kevin’s so stunned he almost forgets to move his feet and he scrambles to fall into step next to them. 

“She writes fan fiction,” the girl gushes. “She wrote me into one of her stories and sent it to me.” 

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Andrew says. 

Kevin winces but the girl laughs. “No it’s good, I swear.” 

“I will take your word for it.” 

“Good, because I am right. Later Andrew!” 

“What was that?” Kevin asks when she’s turned the corner. 

“Collateral damage. She has a new girlfriend. We are thrilled.” 

“Huh,” Kevin says. 

“The last one cheated. There was some discussion of murder methods and burial sites. Fan fiction is, apparently, an improvement.”

“Huh,” Kevin says again.

“Why are you here?” 

“Oh! Coach Peterson called. Miche is going to sign.” 

“Great. Another fucked up baby Fox for Neil to herd. I am so excited,” Andrew deadpans. 

Kevin rolls his eyes. “He also sent a message for you, asshole.” Andrew doesn’t respond to that so Kevin presses on. “He said Miche has been pulled from his foster home as of this morning.” 

Andrew stops walking and stares at Kevin. When he doesn’t say anything, Kevin adds, “He’s staying with Coach Peterson and his wife through the end of the year. Apparently they are registered foster parents, so. You told the right person.” 

“I did not tell him anything,” Andrew says. 

Kevin nods at his friend. “I know.” 

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”


	59. March 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it is I, your friendly neighborhood fanfiction writer. So, the short version is: I had a bit of a mini nervous breakdown due in large part to forgetting to take my sanity-giving meds and in smaller part by generalized writing angst and self-doubt. It took me however long it’s been and the impetus of @foxsoulcourt’s birthday to be able to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys, rather) again.
> 
> I’d like to keep this going, I’d really like to see what the guest writers I have lined up will do with it, and I don’t want Andrew Minyard to judge me for quitting. I just need to tweak the set-up a bit, I think. With that in mind, I’m thinking: I’d like to update often but not every day and I’d like to branch out from specifically the small talks into other moments of Andrew’s days sometimes. I’m hoping these adjustments will stop making me feel like every ounce of my imagination and ability to write creatively is being drained and that I will never be able to get through any of the WIPs in my Docs and I will never finish my dystopiapocalypse or my former!teen-pop-idols idea or that one where Andrew calls in a favor and sends Aaron in his place on a blind date that Kevin sets up for him and then _deeply_ regrets that decision when he actually meets said blind date in person. 
> 
> Anyway, this is Small Talk 2.0. Andrew has been nailing his shit off-screen, I’ve just got to get my shit together.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” Bailey says when they break into pairs to think and share. “Everything okay?”

Andrew doesn’t have to think about the answer. “Bad week.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Andrew doesn’t have to think about this answer, either. “Nope.”

How would he even explain the heavy toll two flights close together takes on him? The even heavier price of confronting a younger version of himself. The shade of satisfaction that he’d been able to do something, change something for someone else was good, but the unrelenting light of memories he can never truly be rid of made that shadow so lean it couldn’t shield all of Andrew’s body. 

“Listen, I’ve been thinking,” Bailey says, blinking their eyelashes in an absolute mockery of guilelessness, “I could set you up.”

“Set me up,” Andrew repeats dully. 

“I’ve got all kinds of friends,” they say. “A whole spectrum of genders and orientations. I’ve got pans and demis and aces. I’ve got tall and short and round and skinny and hairy and porpoise-smooth and Buddhist and Unitarian and even one Catholic, if you’re okay with, like, a whole lot of daddy issues.”

Andrew snorts. Bailey has _no idea_ how on the nose that comment is. “I do not need setting up,” he tells them.

“I’ve got aro and demiro and superro, if that makes a difference.”

“Quite the menu.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“I am—” Andrew pauses, considering. “With someone.”

“Oh, shit, are you?”

“As difficult as it is for me to admit it, yes.”

Bailey’s eyes gleam. They beat a rapid rhythm with their pen against their paper. They visibly rein in their curiosity. “Cool, cool,” they say. “I won’t pry.”

Andrew thinks, maybe it would be okay to throw them one tiny bone. He says, easily, “He is a menace.”


	60. March 6 (moonix)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This authentic German-written-by-a-German dialogue is brought to us by @moonix, with whom I'm sure you're already obsessed, and if you aren't, allow me to suggest accepting her as your (fanfic) lord and savior. 
> 
> Is it previewing a longer residency? Who's to say?
> 
> (Yes, it is.)

Nicky is on the phone. He has been on the phone for an hour and twenty-three minutes now, long enough that his ear must be sore, but he shows no signs of stopping. Andrew’s gaze follows Nicky’s absent-minded path around the room for a while, then spins away like a tumbleweed and knocks into Aaron’s by accident. They each hold the connection for a moment, then look away. As Nicky launches into yet another tale from the mystic realm of his everyday life, Andrew sticks his arm up from his position on the couch at exactly the right moment to snatch Nicky’s phone out of his hand as he passes by. 

“Erik,” he says, holding the phone a little bit away from his head because the plastic feels hot from so much use. “ _Wie geht’s._ ” 

“Oh, Andrew,” Erik says, and Andrew frowns, because even Nicky still gets them confused sometimes if he can’t see which one of them is speaking, and he literally only said three words. Erik, oblivious to this grievous slight he’s committed, continues on merrily: “Nicky tells me you’re coming to visit for spring break?”

“ _Ja,_ ” Andrew says. “ _Ich muss sichergehen, dass Nicky wieder zurückkommt._ ”

Erik laughs, like Nicky simply deciding to stay in Germany isn’t a real possibility without Andrew’s supervision. Finishing his degree aside, there is not much keeping him here anymore. It’s only a matter of time until the pros outweigh the cons. Andrew knows that Erik knows that Andrew knows this. 

“I don’t think that will be an issue,” Erik hums anyway, then tacks on a cheeky “yet” that makes Andrew grind his teeth. 

“ _Ich muss auflegen,_ ” Andrew grits out. 

“Of course,” Erik says, unfazed as if they do this every week. “It was nice talking to you, Andrew. See you in-” 

Andrew mashes the off button on Nicky’s phone, because part of him can’t be bothered to find the end call button and part of him wants to delay the inevitable and keep Nicky from picking up his chatter right where he left off. All of their ears need a break. But Nicky doesn’t even seem interested in calling Erik back right away. He’s still staring at Andrew like he’s grown a second head, or maybe a tiny puppy. Something to coo and tear up over. 

Andrew stands up, letting the phone drop to the floor without catching it. His gaze snags on Aaron’s again, which is bending under the weight of a barely suppressed smirk, but Andrew can still see it. “ _Halt die Klappe,_ ” he tells the room at large, then leaves it just for good measure.

Translations are:  
_How are you?_  
_Yes, I have to make sure he comes back._  
_I have to go._  
_Shut up._


End file.
